Harry Potter and the Life Changing Head Injury
by Abused Wide Bellatris
Summary: Due to a severe head injury, Harry experiences a rather extreme change in personality - namely, a sudden tendency to kill people he doesn't like. Awesome!Psycho!Harry, Harry/Luna main pairing, Übermanipulative!Dumbles, major Weasley-bashing
1. Scrambled Eggs

_Sharing is caring. Even when it fucks up my formatting.  
><em>

**A word of caution to the faint of heart or spirit**: this story contains 91 percent of all warnings ever issued for Harry Potter fanfictions. It would take an entire chapter just to write them all down. I'm so lazy, I'm just going to say you should never read this, regardless of who you are. This is not appropriate for human eyes. It should be thrown into a an endless chasm and erased from all historical records.

If know all that and still want to risk it, don't blame me. I didn't make you keep reading, you psychopath.

But first, a moment of silence for my fellow HP fanfiction author TuesdayNovember, who gave her life beta-reading this chapter.

Now, go forth and ruin your futures, my children.

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><p><strong>Harry Potter and the Life-Changing Head Injury<strong>

_just another dead reptile_

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><p><strong>Chapter One: Scrambled Eggs<strong>

Harry Potter was a very angst-ridden teenager; more so, in fact, than your average teenager. This could have been a result of any one of a number of factors: his parents had been murdered by a deranged Dark wizard before he could walk or talk, he had spent his childhood with relatives who made no secret of the fact that they absolutely despised him, the same Dark wizard that had killed his parents had tried to kill him countless times over the past few years, his godfather had been killed in a most anticlimactic manner just a few months ago, and apparently there was a prophecy which decreed that Harry was supposed to kill the twice-aforementioned Dark wizard or be killed by him.

Spending his entire summer locked up in his small bedroom at Number Four Privet Drive in Surrey with no one to talk to but his owl didn't help much, either. She was a good owl, but didn't make for very interesting conversation. Harry wasn't allowed to go outside, though no one would tell him why. He thought it might have something to do with the fact that various Death Eaters kept appearing on the street at random hours of the night, cursing, and disappearing seconds later. Harry had begun sitting by his window and keeping a log of the times they came, out of sheer boredom. He knew they couldn't actually get into the house even though they knew where he was, thanks to the blood wards.

Ah, yes, the blood wards. Harry's mother, Lily Potter, had died to protect him, which apparently had the effect of making whatever place his relatives lived impervious to Death Eater attacks, or some rot like that. It didn't really matter that his relatives, the Dursleys, were Muggles and absolutely hated him. It also didn't seem to matter that the Dursleys regularly tried to kill him by various methods. Harry wasn't actually sure how the wards worked, but judging by what kept happening over the years, they worked anyway. Barely.

It was, therefore, rather unnecessary (in Harry's opinion) that Albus Dumbledore had stationed guards around the house to... it's kind of self-explanatory. These guards were all members of the Order of the Phoenix, and were not allowed to speak to Harry, though Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody's voice could be heard regularly during his shifts grunting out, "Constant Vigilance!" as he disembowelled whatever unfortunate animal/pet/small child that had snuck up on him.

Uncle Vernon could also be heard quite often, yelling, "BOY!" which was generally followed by some order/insult/verbal tirade. Dudley would occasionally add his own... well, they couldn't really be called thoughts, as there was no thinking involved... as well. In addition, Vernon's sister Marge Dursley was staying at Number Four for the week. This was rather astounding, since the last visit from Marge had ended with the woman floating off into the distance, inflated to several times her normal size. Of course, she couldn't remember any of this, having been Obliviated after the fact by the Ministry, but Harry would have thought that the Dursleys would want to avoid another incident like it. After all, the neighbours might talk.

Aunt Marge, as always, was a bitch. She hadn't brought Ripper along this time, since Ripper - unlike his owner - had not been Obliviated after Harry blew Marge up, and was consequently afraid to come back. Still, Aunt Marge seemed to have summoned up enough viciousness to compensate for his absence anyway. Harry had not known prior to her arrival that one could receive a black eye from being hit with a fuzzy pink slipper, but he supposed that after learning that he was a wizard at eleven years old, fighting a supposedly dead Dark Lord several times before he even hit puberty, and being told that he was the subject of a prophecy which declared that he had to kill said Dark Lord or else, he shouldn't be that surprised that a fuzzy pink slipper could produce a black eye. Such was the life of Harry Potter.

The most recent "BOY!" from Vernon had been accompanied by a demand for him to cook dinner. Harry was to prepare a large feast, of which he would have none and Dudley would have almost all. The rest would go to Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia (who really didn't count, as she was thinner than a straw), and Aunt Marge, the latter of whom was on a diet that involved drinking massive amounts of alcohol. As the food disappeared, so did the alcohol, and with it went the very small amount of self-restraint that Marge possessed when sober.

"Still going to St. Brutus's, are you, boy?" she slurred, nearly spilling her wine.

Harry grunted. He wasn't in the mood for this right now.

"I'm surprised they haven't kicked you out by now, with an attitude like that."

Another grunt.

"Vernon, are you sure they're beating him enough at that place? He seems to have gotten worse." Marge was quite drunk right now, as she had already ingested two and a half bottles of wine. Even with her body mass, there was only so much a person could have before getting plastered.

"Oh, yes," said Uncle Vernon, glaring at Harry. "Aren't they, boy?"

"I can still barely sit," Harry said dully, not even bothering to look at the table.

Marge inhaled the last of her wine and helped herself to another glass. "Honestly, Vernon, why do you keep the boy? Do be honest, your huge heart is nothing to be ashamed of."

Harry snorted.

"Well," said Uncle Vernon, "He was supposed to go live with his godfather or something, until the idiot went and got himself killed."

Now, an angst-ridden teenager like Harry Potter will not take something like this very well. Therefore, it was quite a miracle that both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge remained on the ground, at least for the time being. Instead, all the flies around the rubbish bins outside mysteriously dropped dead.

"Doesn't surprise me," Marge slurred. "Birds of a feather flock together, as they say. How did it happen?"

Dudley's old tortoise, which had been living under the greenhouse for several years now, silently exploded.

Dudley himself, having stopped gorging himself for a few seconds, answered this question. "He tripped on some curtains, or something. I heard him talking about it in his sleep."

Hedwig would have been next, except that Marge took it a step further: "Your sister's friends are all insane, Petunia. The sooner they're all dead, the better, I say," she declared pompously. "Why, it was probably all his fault, the idiot. Tripping over curtains indeed -"

"SHUT UP!" Harry yelled in an angst-ridden voice, as he was an angst-ridden teenager, after all. "Sirius was a thousand times better than you! Just shut up!"

For the second time in three years, Aunt Marge began to inflate. Dudley and Aunt Petunia both fell out of their chairs, Dudley nearly causing an earthquake when he landed, but Uncle Vernon's face simply turned a pasty white colour.

"NOT AGAIN, BOY!" he roared. "YOU PUT HER RIGHT OR I'LL BEAT YOU WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR LIFE!"

But Marge continued to inflate, and Harry continued to rant.

"She had no right to talk about Sirius that way! I'm sick of her and I'm sick of you! I hate all of you!"

"FIX HER!" Vernon wailed. When Harry showed no sign of complying, he rushed forward and shook the boy. "FIX HER RIGHT NOW! YOU ARE IN TROUBLE, BOY!"

"SHUT UP!" yelled Harry, as he really did not care at this point what happened.

Uncle Vernon, on the other hand, did care what happened. However, instead of having the good sense to calm down and ask Harry politely to fix Aunt Marge, he took the route of violence, grabbing a partially washed frying pan out of the sink and swinging it at Harry's head as hard as he could. Harry turned just in time to receive the full force of the blow right in the forehead. Right in the scar.

Interestingly, for all of the painstaking research performed by Albus Dumbledore on how to destroy the Horcrux embedded in Harry Potter's scar, not once did he ever think of simply hitting the boy very hard in the head with a metal object. Thus, Vernon Dursley was able to do something that Albus Dumbledore could not, besides sit in an office all day and think about drills.

And from that moment forward, Harry James Potter was one hundred percent horcrux-free.

Because he had been hit very hard in the head, Harry passed out briefly. When he awoke, his head was spinning. Marge had stopped inflating, and Vernon was too busy impersonating a traffic light to hit him again. Harry stood up. He was in rather a lot of pain, but he also felt much better than he had felt before. In fact, he felt so much better that he decided to grin. Yes, life was suddenly quite nice.

"BOY!" Uncle Vernon had finally found his voice. His face was stuck at a rather interesting shade of puce.

"Yes?" Harry asked cheerfully.

Vernon was now pulling clumps out of his moustache. "BOY, FIX MARGE! FIX HER! LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO MY FAMILY!"

Harry turned and surveyed the room. Marge still looked like she'd had an affair with an air pump, Dudley was rolling around trying to get up, and Petunia was hiding behind Dudley's massive bulk.

"FIX HER!" Uncle Vernon repeated hysterically.

Shrugging, Harry smiled again. "Okay," he said, and snapped his fingers. Marge started growing again.

Uncle Vernon made a rather horrible noise and charged at Harry, who pointed his finger at the man and said, "_Imperio_." Vernon stopped in mid-step, awaiting orders.

"Ummm..." Harry mused, ignoring Marge's muffled squawks. "Let's see... I want you to... hmm... eat your own moustache."

Immediately, Uncle Vernon raised his hands and resumed his nervous habit of pulling hair of his moustache, except that he was stuffing it in his mouth after he pulled it out. Dudley and Petunia looked on in horrified fascination, and Marge made more weird noises.

Harry wondered if Dumbledore knew what was going on. The man certainly had a lot of eyes on the place, and yet no one had come inside. Had he still been an angsty teenager and not an insane deviant with a head injury, Harry mused, he might have thought of Dumbledore as a 'manipulative old coot.' However, with things as they were, he decided he preferred to think of the man as a 'nosey, age-gifted fuckhead.' It was much more creative.

The puppet-master pulled a chair away from the table and sat on it, backwards, considering his options as he watched the show in front of him. What was he to do, now that he had achieved self-awareness and a probable frontal lobe injury through a random assault? Should he use his new-found independence to defeat Voldemort and the Death Eaters? Get revenge on everybody who'd shunned him last year? Throw Bellatrix Lestrange through the veil to avenge his godfather? Wreak havoc on the entire Wizarding world? Make everybody he didn't like run and hide, not knowing if they were going to be hit with an _Avada Kedavra _or a lemon cream pie?

Yes, Harry decided, he was going to do that. All of that. In no particular order. But he wasn't going to do it because of a prophecy, or revenge, or anger, or teenage angst, or a desire to become the next Dark Lord. No, Harry was going to do all of it because it sounded like it would be fun. He just wanted to enjoy himself. The Boy-Who-Lived wracked his brain, but he couldn't really find a better reason to do anything. Why should there be a better reason?

Harry's musings were interrupted by Aunt Petunia, who had stood at some point.

"What do you think you're doing?" she shrieked. It hurt Harry's ears. "I will not have this freakishness in my house! I'm going to write Dumbledore and tell him -"

"Shut up, please," said Harry. He didn't want Dumbledore coming inside and lecturing him sternly about using Unforgivables on his relatives. But Petunia didn't stop screeching, so Harry put the Imperius curse on her as well. Petunia's eyes glazed over. "Go outside and tell the witch or wizard lurking out there that Dudley just exploded," Harry ordered.

Obediently, Petunia marched out of the room, and Harry heard the front door open.

"I didn't just explode!" Dudley said stupidly. He'd managed to get himself upright, at least, and was looking at Harry in confusion.

Harry smiled and pointed his finger at his cousin. "_Intestinus Erumpo_!"

Dudley didn't actually _explode_, per se, but his stomach split open and his innards flew out into his lap. Dudley screamed and began trying to gather himself up again, but only managed to tangle his intestines among each other. Harry looked at Uncle Vernon. "When you're done eating your moustache, I want you to eat Marge's moustache," he said. Marge stopped growing for the moment as Vernon trundled over to her.

With a bang, the door flew open and Mundungus Fletcher came into the house, wand drawn, followed by Aunt Petunia. He stopped dead when he saw the mess in the dining room: Uncle Vernon eating the facial hair off of his own bloated sister, Dudley wailing and attempting to pile his insides back into his body, and Harry sitting in the corner with a smile on his face.

"Hello, Dung," said Harry. "I suppose you're wondering what's going on."

Mundungus had turned white as a sheet. "Yeah," was all he managed to croak out.

"That one -" Harry pointed at Marge - "was accidental magic. I'm not sure if there's a name for the spell, but it's really funny. Those two -" and here he pointed at Uncle Vernon and then over Mundungus's shoulder at Aunt Petunia - "are Imperiused." Now he pointed at Dudley. "That one got hit with an Entrail Expelling Curse. And to answer your other question, it was all me."

"Y-y-you!" Mundungus spluttered. "But - _you_?" He made to do something that involved using his wand, but the wand exploded instead.

"Sorry, but there are Muggles watching," Harry explained apologetically, gesturing vaguely in the Dursleys' direction. "As a citizen of Wizarding Britain, it is my duty to enforce the Statute of Secrecy." He paused, frowning slightly. "That would have been a lot funnier if I'd said it to a Ministry official."

Mundungus reached clumsily into his robes and whipped out a second wand. Five or six others fell out of the pocket he'd gotten it from and clattered to the floor noisily.

"_Stupef_ -" Harry began, but Mundungus turned on his heel and disappeared before he could finish the incantation. "Damn it." It seemed the smelly man's criminal activities had afforded him a means of escape this time.

On the other hand, Mundungus had also afforded Harry six more wands, to the green-eyed boy's delight. Harry had a feeling that not a single one was registered with the Ministry. Of the six, he found one that seemed to like him more than the others, and returned to the dining room to try it out.

Dudley had stopped screaming and was moaning pitifully. He would not last much longer. Marge was now moustache-less, as was Vernon. Harry flicked his new wand and she started growing again. Then he pointed it at Petunia and said, "_Avada Kedavra_."

His aunt dropped to the floor, stone dead.

He giggled. This was amazingly fun. He should have thought of it years ago. Then again, he hadn't been hit in the head with a frying pan years ago. "_Avada Kedavra_." Dudley's moaning ceased.

Aunt Marge was now floating, bumping against the ceiling. Harry manoeuvred Vernon into the chair beneath her, put him in a Full Body Bind, and lifted the Imperius Curse.

"And now," he said happily, "the highlight of the show!" He flicked his wand at Aunt Marge, and she exploded.

Vernon got a face-full of her guts.

Harry slashed his wand sideways, and all of Uncle Vernon's insides burst with a series of wet pops. The fat man fell over, dead as the rest of the Dursleys, which was quite dead indeed.

Upstairs, Harry opened his trunk and began piling his things into it. Hedwig hooted questioningly at him, but he ignored her for the moment, as he was attempting to organize his thoughts coherently. It was rather hard because of his recent head trauma.

Having just killed four people, Harry was fairly certain that he would not be welcome in certain places anymore. Those places included the Ministry of Magic, Hogwarts, and generally anywhere that wasn't called Azkaban. Harry did not really like Dementors very much, so he felt it would be a good idea to avoid getting caught. It was rather unusual that Dumbledore hadn't sent anyone yet, but Harry wasn't complaining. Mundungus probably hadn't worked up the balls to tell him yet, or maybe he'd just gotten drunk as soon as he escaped and passed out in some alley.

Then there was the problem of his friends. Harry rather liked having friends, even after being hit very hard in the head. Unfortunately, Ron and Hermione would probably not take too well to Harry's recently discovered penchant for murdering people he didn't like. This made him quite sad, in a way. Ginny, though, would be more understanding, since she had nearly killed several people in her first year of Hogwarts (even though it wasn't really her fault). Also, she was in love with Harry, so it would be easier to get her to do things.

Harry let Hedwig out of her cage and scrawled a note to the aforementioned Weasley explaining that he had just killed the last remaining members of his family using illegal Dark magic, and requesting that she take care of his owl until he found a place to stay that wasn't at risk for Auror raids. "Take this to Ginny, girl," he said. Hedwig hooted and took off just as Harry tossed her cage into his trunk and slammed it shut with his foot.

On a whim, Harry slunk into Dudley's room, wand drawn. Dudley's room was much bigger than Harry's, and a lot messier. The floor was less like a floor and more like an ocean made up of Dudley's belongings. They appeared to be in chronological order, too, as Harry could see everything from discarded DVD cases on the top to brightly coloured storybooks peeking out of the bottom. He kicked a broken television that was half-buried under a bag of rotting potato chips. What a mess.

"_Reducto_!"

Dudley's computer desk exploded.

"_Confrigo_!"

The bed, as well as a large chunk of the wall behind it, was essentially vaporized.

Suddenly, Harry thought of a very interesting curse that the impostor posing as Alastor Moody had told his class about in fourth year. He pointed his wand in the general vicinity of the greatest concentration of Dudley's things and said, "_Fiendfyre_!"

Flames exploded from Harry's wand, taking the forms of various dark creatures as they came: werewolves, chimeras, dragons, and many more that Harry didn't even recognize. He thought he saw something that could have been a Dementor or a Lethifold – he wasn't sure which, as both looked basically like cloaks. In any case, the magical fire consumed everything it came in contact with, devouring Dudley's belongings hungrily. Harry directed the flames to burn through the wall and into his aunt and uncle's room as well. Perhaps he would burn the whole house down. But then how would anyone find the bodies?

Harry vacated the burning room and went out onto the landing, where he had left his trunk. Whistling cheerfully, he dragged his trunk down the stairs and out the front door.

He had absolutely no idea where he was going to go, nor did he really care.

Shortly after Harry left, the entire Order of the Phoenix Apparated in front of Number Four, Privet Drive. What they found was an enormous bonfire, since the flames in Dudley's room had gone wild when Harry stopped bothering to control them. Everybody scrambled to get the fire under control before it spread to the neighbouring houses. Everybody, that is, except for one person.

Albus Dumbledore, still dressed in his nightgown, stared at the blazing inferno in silence for a long time. Then he heaved a great and weary sigh.

"Shit," he said.

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><p><strong>Congratulations: you made it to the end of the first chapter.<strong>

The '_Intestinus Erumpo_' incantation for the Entrail-Expelling Curse is from Lightning On The Wave's '_Wind That Shakes The Seas And Stars_.'

I'm going to post the next chapter next week.

Reviews mean you care about my poor beta-reader's noble sacrifice. Otherwise, you're just a heartless fiend. You're not a heartless fiend... are you?


	2. All Aboard the Death Bus

_Sharing is caring. Even when it fucks up my formatting._

**A warning for the strong of heart and weak of mind: **You made it through one chapter. This one is a lot more insipid than the last. It's full of every single Super-Harry cliche ever written in a fanfic, and Molly Weasley's screeching. If you're not careful, you'll start hearing that woman in your head, shrieking her vile melody of madness, and you'll be unable to focus on anything until you lose all semblance of rational thought and just sit around and drool and chew Drooble's Best Blowing Gum all day.

Importantly, this chapter has also been beta-read by TuesdayNovember, despite the fact that she's dead; I, with the help of some friends, resurrected her as an Inferius. Please be aware that I will not extend this courtesy to everyone who dies from reading this story; you are all responsible for your own ruin.

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><p><strong>Harry Potter and the Life-Changing Head Injury<strong>

_just another dead reptile_

**Chapter Two: All Aboard the Death Bus  
><strong>

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><p>Harry dragged his trunk down the street. It was extremely heavy, since it now contained just about everything he owned (except for the piles and piles and piles and piles and piles and piles and piles of gold he had in Gringotts... why hadn't he ever gone and spent any of that?) as well as a shrunken motorcycle he'd obtained when its owner, a large man who smelled strongly of alcohol and old bodily waste, had tried to rob him and gotten himself... well, the result wasn't pretty, and smelled almost as bad as the man did when he was alive. But the motorcycle was very nice, and Harry wanted to enchant it so that it could fly like Sirius's old bike did.<p>

He knew that Sirius was watching from the stars, but couldn't remember which star, or constellation, or whatever, was called Sirius. So, instead, he just flipped off the entire sky. Damn you, Padfoot, for dying in such an anticlimactic... actually, the stupidity of it was memorable in itself. So, never mind. At least Sirus's death would always be cooler than Wormtail's. The rat was probably going to accidentally strangle himself, or something retarded like that. So undamn you, Sirius. Damn you, Wormtail, for being such a stupid moron as to strangle yourself.

Then Harry had a _completely_ random flash of inspiration as he sat down to rest, since dragging his heavy trunk along was very tiring. He pointed his wand at it and shrunk it down so he could put it in his pocket. Then he continued walking, now able to swagger in a Malfoy-like way (but unlike Malfoy his face wasn't pointier than a nail and his hair couldn't be considered a blunt object) because he was very satisfied with himself and his own insanely awesome geniusness.

Mrs. Figg's house was across the street. Harry briefly considered blowing it up, but decided not to because it wouldn't be very nice – and besides, she let him have cake once. It was good cake, too, even though it was kind of old, like Mrs. Figg. He looked around. A lot of cats were staring at him from around, on top of, and between rubbish bins all over the place. They probably belonged to Mrs. Figg. Harry thought about compromising and just blowing up Mrs. Figg's cats instead of her house. But that didn't work either, because looking at them feel all fuzzy and warm inside.

On the other hand, they did exist, and Harry couldn't forgive existence. All life must be destroyed, he thought, though he didn't know why he thought that. It just made sense, and it sounded kind of cool. He could imagine it on billboards and propaganda posters: '_ALL LIFE MUST BE DESTROYED!' _He went to point his wand at the cats.

But he was alive, too, so he found himself pointing his wand at his own head instead. If he was alive, then he'd have to be destroyed too, logically. Harry frowned. This was confusing. If he was destroyed, he wouldn't be able to destroy everything else, but if he didn't destroy himself then he'd be a hypocrite, and hypocrisy was generally bad.

And then he remembered that the Sorting Hat didn't even consider putting him in Ravenclaw, but it put Luna Lovegood in Ravenclaw. That meant, obviously, that Harry was even less obligated to give a shit about logic than Luna was, and that was not much of an obligation.

"You'll get a reprieve this day, but you may not be so lucky next time," he said, jabbing his wand at the cats.

There was a very loud _BANG_, and a purple triple-decker bus appeared out of nowhere. Harry wondered why the Knight Bus was there, and then he noticed that he was standing halfway off the sidewalk with his wand out in the air.

Oh.

Well, it was better than walking all the way to wherever the hell he decided to go. He went inside. There was a different driver – apparently, Ernie had been replaced – but Stan Shunpike was still there. Stan started looking very nervous when he saw Harry.

"Hello," said Stan. He was sweating profusely and making exaggerated zigzag motions on his forehead at someone in the back of the bus.

"Hi," Harry said cheerfully. "I have no idea where I want to go, but this place is boring."

"Oh, okay," Stan replied, looking even sweatier than ever. "Well, uh, if I could suggest a place – there's this manor out in the middle of Little Hang-"

"I want to go to Diagon Alley," Harry interrupted.

Stan started miming putting something on his face at the person in the back as he said, "Oh, okay. Well, come on in then."

"How much?" asked Harry. "I changed my mind, by the way. I want to go to... Knockturn Alley."

"What?"

"How much?" Harry repeated. "How much money will it cost to go to Ottery St. Catchpole? I mean, Diagon Alley? I mean, who cares?"

Stan, who had been making throat-cutting motions and pointing at Harry, looking at the back of the bus again and mouthing '_It's Potter!_' started, and after fumbling for a moment he said, "Oh. It's, uh, free. Yeah."

"Cool," said Harry, and he came onto the bus and punched Death Eater who was trying to ambush him in the face. It didn't do much, because the Death Eater was wearing his mask, but then when Harry cast the Killing Curse on him, it kind of did do a lot. Around three quarters of a second later, the bus driver suddenly felt an irresistible urge to jump in front of Harry and absorb every single spell that was fired at him by the other Death Eater at the back of the bus.

"Oh, shit," Stan said, and tried to run away off the bus. He wasn't much of a wizard, and not much of a Death Eater, either. Unfortunately, he got caught in the bus's doors, which slammed shut with such incredible, unnatural force they cleaved him right in half. Two very pathetic, very pimply halves.

The Death Eater in the back of the bus was not as stupid as his three dead comrades. He took a rather ugly, fat woman hostage. "Back off, Potter, or she's dead!" he snarled.

The woman blew up, sadly.

"What the fuck!" the Death Eater shouted, sounding both startled and a little indignant. He was now covered with fat, gore, fat, adipose tissue, fat, cellulite, fat, fat, and undigested Twinkies from head to toe. "You're not supposed to do that – Oh, fuck you. _Avada Kedavra_!"

The spell didn't hit Harry, even though his aim was dead on. The fact that the blown-up woman's obese husband came spinning into the path of the curse could have had something to do with it. The Death Eater turned around to grab another hostage, but in the adrenaline-fuelled haze of combat he'd temporarily forgotten that the only other living thing on the bus now was a hag on the third tier. His search for hostages cost him his life, since it involved turning his back on the enemy.

"_Reducto_."

The Death Eater was blasted out the back of the Knight Bus, screaming like a professional yodeler, before he hit a light post and bent in half with a rather nasty crunching noise that was remarkably similar to the sound one might hear when biting into a head of lettuce.

Harry threw the hag off of the bus too, literally – because hags are so unlikable that nobody gives a shit about them, except maybe Dumbledore, and probably Hermione, who would start an organization to campaign for their rights, which would likely lead to her getting stewed in a pot – and sat down in the driver's seat. He was going to go to Diagon Alley and visit his vault in Gringotts. Depending on whether Dumbledore had thought to lock him out of said vault yet, he would also be testing whether or not the Knight Bus could drive through miles of solid stone.

Or maybe he'd just get some ice cream instead.

"I wonder what everybody else is doing?" he hummed to himself, as he tried, and failed because of the bus's inherent safety features, to run over a cow.

* * *

><p>While Harry was driving all over the place like a maniac, an emergency meeting of the Order of the Phoenix was in progress at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. It was actually <em>the<em> emergency meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. The one that happens whenever Harry Potter disappears suddenly with no trace and there are hints of foul play, and everyone speculates wildly as to his fate.

Or, anyway, said meeting was beginning. Most of the Order members were still half-asleep. Moody was going around yelling obscenities at them to wake them up, because you couldn't be CONSTANTLY VIGILANT if you were half-asleep. Dumbledore was there as well. Well, obviously, since he was the leader of the Order, and the Light, and all that. He wasn't actually _in_ the room, since he was busy casting upon his aged person all the glamours that he used to make himself appear to be a caring, grandfatherly headmaster-man instead of a senile, manipulative, thoroughly evil bastard. Because that tends to show after a while if you're not careful.

The rest of the Order were crowded into the kitchen of Number Twelve. Why they chose to use the kitchen instead of, say, the extremely expansive drawing room was anyone's guess, but it might have had something to do with the fact that Kreacher had managed to repopulate most of the rest of the house with Doxies in the short time he'd been left alone there. The decrepit old elf had spent the rest of the summer alternately sobbing over a picture of Regulus Black, bashing an old locket against various objects and people in the streets, and/or secretly masturbating in front of Walburga Black's portrait while invisible. Clearly, what remained of his sanity (there hadn't been much left to begin with) had left him to hang on the wall with the severed elf heads.

"What's going on, Headmaster?" asked Charlie Weasley when Dumbledore finally walked in, looking quite headmasterly. He and Bill were the only Weasleys who were already completely awake when they arrived, since Bill lived in a different time zone than the rest of the family and Charlie was addicted to Muggle amphetamines.

"'S about Potter," Mundungus Fletcher babbled from his little corner of the room. "Fuckin' – crazy – fuckin' – psychopath – what in the fuck –"

Moody stomped on the floor with his wooden leg. "Shut up," he commanded. "Drunken idiot. This is probably all your fault, anyway; it was your shift..." He trailed off, ending his rant without a single '_Constant Vigilance_!' because the claw on his wooden leg was stuck in the floor and he was trying to pull it free without embarrassing himself further.

"Everyone, please calm down," said Dumbledore in his most leaderly, headmasterly, grandfatherly, non-manipulative-bastardly voice. "If you will all be quiet, I will explain the situation, and we can all get to work rectifying it."

"Albus," Remus Lupin said, very seriously. "What's happened to Harry? Is he all right?"

"Of course he is," Dumbledore replied in a serene voice. "There's just been a... Well, no. He's actually not all right. He's probably either dead or dying right now, and nobody on our side has any clue where he is." It pained him to admit this, because Dumbledore always had to be right, but sometimes you had to sacrifice a lot to gain a lot less... That was just the way the world worked, he thought with a weary sigh. He needed a lemon drop and a good magazine.

The room erupted with noise at his proclamation; people were yelling, demanding answers; Molly Weasley was practically (or literally) shrieking with worry; Remus was demanding answers in his lycanthropy-enhanced voice; Mundungus was yelling that Harry Potter was a murderous psychopath; Snape was agreeing with Mundungus; Moody was ordering everybody to shut the fuck up. This went on until a loud, super-powered _BANG _from Dumbledore's Elder Wand temporarily deafened them all, and they shut up because they couldn't hear anything anymore.

"Panic will get us nowhere," the Headmaster said in the calmest voice he could, and everybody had to read his lips in order to understand what he was saying.

"What, exactly, is going on?" Remus pressed, even though he couldn't hear anything that was coming out of his mouth, so it ended up sounding a bit like a deaf person trying to talk. "Was there an attack? People were talking about a fire –"

"There was a fire," Dumbledore confirmed, "but there was no attack... I'm afraid it was much, much worse." This time, the room waited silently for him to continue, too apprehensive to even make any sort of sound even though their hearing had started to come back. Finally, unable to put off admitting his monumental fuckup any longer, the venerated Leader of the Light said, "Earlier tonight, Harry – or someone pretending to be Harry – killed the Dursleys."

Even the deafening _BANG_ from Dumbledore's wand couldn't stop the outburst that followed this statement. Remus, Tonks, and the entire Weasley family (sans Ron and Ginny, who weren't allowed there because they were underage – and also, everyone agreed that Ron was a loudmouthed idiot, and Ginny was possessed by a talking diary when she was eleven, so how smart could she be?) were all agreeing that Harry couldn't possibly have done such a thing, except Fred and George, who were loudly singing an upbeat song about Harry killing the Dursleys in various unpleasant ways, as they didn't much like those particular Muggles; several others were demanding to know what could possibly have led to something like this happening; Mundungus was just yelling incoherently, as he was dead drunk, and Moody was threatening to hex his balls off if he didn't shut up; McGonagall had turned the color of chalk and stopped moving entirely.

When the Order had calmed down again, at last, Dumbledore was extremely relieved. Molly Weasley's voice was enough to make anyone want to curl up and die. He imagined she'd be quite fierce on the battlefield, especially if she were enraged and shouting things at her opponent that would distract them by making their eardrums explode. Now that she was no longer giving him a migraine, however, the Headmaster was free to continue explaining how every single one of the plans he'd put into action for the last fifteen years had been ruined: "I have reviewed Mundungus's memories from the house in my pensieve, as he was kind enough to lend them to me. It was indeed Harry's body that murdered all three Dursleys, plus a fourth relative of Vernon's. However... I noticed, in my reviewing of the events, that Harry's scar had deformed and appeared to be bleeding. This also occurred when Harry was possessed by Voldemort at the Ministry of Magic."

Really, couldn't the boy have just cast him out with the power of love like last time? Was it so much to ask, Dumbledore thought, for his plans to proceed smoothly as they had for the last fifteen years? It seemed it was too much to ask. Damn Harry for not being a good point-and-shoot weapon, like that muggle blunderbuss he'd borrowed from Aberforth that one time (which had given him the idea in the first place).

"Are you saying You-Know-Who did this?" asked Arthur Weasley. "Took over his body and made him kill his relatives?"

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "That is my theory, yes," he said. "Harry, or Voldemort, tortured and killed the Dursleys, attacked Mundungus, and obtained several unregistered wands before setting fire to the house with Fiendfyre, which eventually spread to most of the neighbourhood." There was silence.

"And?" Remus urged, a hint of hysteria creeping into his usually calm voice.

"I don't know," Dumbledore admitted. There was a sour taste in his mouth now, similar to what one experiences when waking up after drinking a lot the previous night. "We couldn't find him when we arrived. It's possible he simply burned himself along with the Dursleys –" Remus, and most of the rest of the Order, looked horrified, "-but the Aurors found a Muggle's body several blocks away, one that had been mutilated with very Dark magic. It's not a stretch to think that Voldemort is trying to bring Harry to his headquarters, since he is so fixated on finishing him by his own hand..."

The Order members all went a bit mad for a while, because they're required to do that in situations like these instead of acting rationally – besides Moody, who was already completely mad and never acted rationally. They cried and rambled and such things for a while, except for Snape; Snape was just sitting there, laughing at them all, because he was really the only (remotely) rational man left in the room.

Dumbledore sighed. Molly Weasley's ear-splitting screech truly was horrific. It was comparable to the manic shrieking Bellatrix Lestrange emitted whenever someone within earshot insulted Voldemort. Hmm. Maybe there was something to be done about that – perhaps he could manipulate Molly Weasley into killing Bellatrix. Maybe the two psychotic hags would kill each other, and he'd have some peace at last.

He started plotting, because it made him feel better. Dumbledore was a compulsive plotter, like Millicent Bulstrode was a compulsive eater.

* * *

><p>Harry stepped gracefully out of the Knight Bus after forcing the Stan Shunpike-smeared doors open. Actually, he didn't step gracefully out so much as stumble out and fall on his face. But there wasn't that much of a difference in the end, was there? It was all just semantics.<p>

Then he ducked a Stunning spell and fell on his face again.

Madam Malkin, you see, did not take kindly to customers misbehaving in her shop. She especially didn't take kindly to random witches and wizards barging in and carrying out acts of mischief. And in particular, she didn't take kindly to people ramming purple triple-decker buses through the walls of her establishment and then stumbling out like they'd done nothing wrong. So she was shooting spells at Harry, intending to either kill him or capture him and introduce him to a level of pain even Bellatrix would have been envious of.

You may be wondering why she was in her shop in the middle of the night. Well, Madam Malkin's was open all day and all night, year round. This was because Madam Malkin herself was actually a vampire and didn't need to sleep. And also, everyone knows that real vampires have badass fashion senses. Even most fake vampires are smart enough to wear dark clothing to cover up the sparkle, except for Edward Cullen – but he didn't exist in this universe anyway, since Cedric Diggory's body was currently six feet under and being consumed by worms, roaches, centipedes, spiders, maggots, flies, and other creepy-crawlies. As opposed, of course, to walking around sparkling in the sun and wooing clumsy brainless teenaged Mary-Sues.

Anyway, Harry did a lot of fancy acrobatics to avoid having his recently scrambled brains (for he was a great deal more intelligent than Edward Cullen and Bella Swan put together, even after his head injury) blasted against the rows of expensive robes that were probably all going to go to Draco Malfoy's walk-in closet and be worn once before being burned. He didn't kill Madam Malkin, but it wasn't because she was a vampire and couldn't die the normal way; it was because he needed something from her.

"Hi," said Harry over the noise of Madam Malkin's murderous spell casting. "I'm Harry Potter. I would like to –" He dodged a _Reducto_, "-get outfitted for a bunch of badass clothing, possibly involving leather."

Immediately, Madam Malkin stopped shooting spells at him. Harry Potter in leather was worth having the Knight Bus embedded in the wall of her shop. "Ooh," she said.

Exactly one hour later, Harry strode out of Madam Malkin's, looking like the most badass motherfucker of all time, complete with boots, black leather duster, and mirror shades. He looked like he'd walked right out of The Matrix, except that The Matrix didn't come out for another two years, so nobody knew that, and thus he looked very original. He also hadn't cut his hair into that stupid, stupid, _stupid_ haircut he had in the _Order of the Phoenix_ movie yet, so he looked even more badass because he had long-ish, slightly rebellious-looking hair.

But then he walked past a side alley and a couple of Death Eaters came out and tried to kill him.

"Die, Potter! Die! _Avada Kedavra_!"

Fortunately, they were Crabbe and Goyle, Sr., neither of whom were particularly bright, so Harry just Summoned Crabbe into the path of Goyle's wand before the Killing Curse was even cast. That night, Crabbe became the third person in history to ever survive being hit by a Killing Curse, but it wasn't because of horcruxes or the power of love. It was because he'd polished his mask so much it reflected the curse back at Goyle, who made a 'Ghhk' sound and died instead.

Crabbe became very distraught, because he didn't understand what the hell had just happened. Not that he could really be blamed: you try getting hit with a Killing Curse and living. Especially when you're borderline-retarded. You try that, and then you try and make sense out of it all. Life, and that stuff.

Harry came to the rescue by grabbing Goyle's wand and ramming it into the eyehole of Crabbe's mask. "_Puncto_," he said while Crabbe howled in agony. The Punctum Hex is supposed to be performed with a downward or sideways slashing motion, resulting in a thin jet of purple flame that drills through the target and paralyzes whatever muscles it comes in contact with, but in this case Harry didn't have much room to move around. So instead, Goyle's wand just exploded.

It was a curious night in the world of magic. Very curious indeed. Crabbe's skull was not, in fact, thicker than that of the average human being, but somehow it contained the blast. Maybe it was because Harry had shoved the wand so far in, or maybe not. No one would ever know. In any case, Crabbe's brain turned to goop, and his lifeless corpse collapsed onto the pavement of Diagon Alley.

"Cool," said Harry, examining the exploded wand, which had some of Crabbe's brains on it. "Ick, troll bogeys."

He tossed the blown up wand away and wandered down Diagon Alley. A bit further on, he spent the last of his pocket money on some ice cream at Florean Fortescue's.

It was good ice cream, too.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong>

In case you're extremely stupid (you probably are), the Punctum Hex is the curse Dolohov used in the Department of Mysteries. It's not a canon name, but who cares. I picked up the name and incantation from jtmill9's 'Reading the Order of the Phoenix', so the credit for naming it goes to him/her/it. All the stuff about its effects comes from me, though. It'll pop up a lot more in this story and in others, because I think it's an incredibly cool spell.

I've never liked Molly Weasley very much. If someone was going to kill Bellatrix, it should have been Neville Longbottom; he at least has a reason to fight her and isn't just some random fat, screeching housewife coming out of nowhere.

I do like Dumbledore a lot. Most of his part was just making fun of Manipulative!Dumbledore stories. I tried very hard to avoid using the 'Leader of the Light' title, but I couldn't help sticking it in at least once, in the end. He's very fun to write.

The next update will come whenever the hell, because I have a life. Don't worry, though. It'll be soon. Really soon. As in, I won't make you wait more than three and a half years. OH, you want it now, do you? One chapter isn't good enough for you? You ungrateful pillocks. Away with you!


	3. Explode a Toad

_Sharing is caring, even when it fucks up my formatting..._

**A word to all of you who are mad because I didn't update fast enough: **Why are you so eager to ruin your lives?

This chapter is a bit different from the other two in style and tone, and I don't like it as much as the others, but it works for what's going on in it. Who cares. Just read it. Stop wasting my time with your idle, insipid words of nothingness.

I have no respect for anyone who reads this story. You're all idiots.

* * *

><p><strong>Harry Potter and the Life Changing Head Injury<strong>

_jadr_

**Chapter Three: Explode a Toad  
><strong>

* * *

><p>If there was one thing Harry really, really wanted to do, it was get Umbridge. He didn't like that woman at all. Her fat, ugly toad face made him want to vomit even more than the smell of Goyle's socks did. Not that he'd ever smelled Goyle's socks, thank god, but if he had, he'd probably have ranked them just below Umbridge's face on a scale of disgustingness. That was how disgusting Umbridge's face was - or how disgusting Goyle's socks were, really.<p>

And so it was that Harry decided, as he finished his ice cream (which was delicious) and headed up the steps into Gringotts, that he would go make the world a better place by removing Dolores Umbridge from it, and he would have a lot of fun doing it. But first, he decided, as he headed back down the steps out of Gringotts and into Diagon Alley half an hour later, his pockets jangling with a lot of money he'd bribed the goblins into letting him take out of his real vault, he was going to go on a shopping spree and buy a lot of cool stuff. The money he'd taken out was probably only about 0.0000001 percent of his family's fortune, but it was still a rather large amount. Since he was a teenager, and a Gryffindor, and thus in possession of a very short attention span, he went to the first place that caught his interest (because of the U-No-Poo billboard): Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.

A little bell jingled when he went inside. There was a girl he recognized from Hogwarts, Veritaserum-Something, behind the counter, but Fred and George weren't around. Harry still decided to look around anyway, because how boring could a shop run by the twins be? He was right. Fred and George had all kinds of crazy stuff, like a tank full of Mexican Staring Frogs that Harry was pretty sure were highly illegal, and a stack of boxes containing Voldemort sex dolls. He avoided those.

However, he found a lot of their other products much more appealing. There were a lot of things that could be used to cause mayhem, chaos, and destruction, which was excellent; he particularly liked the Peruvian Darkness Powder, as he didn't much care what blew up when he pointed his wand at it, so long as it blew up. Unfortunately, Harry was rather disappointed with the selection of fireworks Fred and George had. He didn't know much about fireworks, but he knew that these weren't the kind they'd used to make their grand exit from Hogwarts.

"Do you have anything more powerful than these?" he asked the Veritaserum girl, indicating the fireworks. "I'm looking to do some heavy-duty demolition."

"We do," said the Veritaserum girl, "but Mr Weasley and Mr Weasley keep them in the back so people don't set them off and blow up the shop."

Oh. Well, that made sense. "Please show me these heavy-duty fireworks," Harry requested. "I would like to buy a lot of them."

The Veritaserum girl looked nervously apologetic. "I'm not allowed to take anyone into the back," she said. "Mr Weasley and Mr Weasley are the only ones who can do that."

"Oh," said Harry. "Okay." He took his wand out, and before the Veritaserum girl could draw her own wand or run or scream or anything, he said, "_Imperio_. Take me to the fireworks, Veritaserum girl."

She still looked apologetic. "I don't have a key," she said.

"That's okay," Harry assured her. "I do."

"All right. Come with me."

Ten minutes or so later, Harry had a second trunk in his pocket. It was filled with a _shitload_ of stuff from WWW, much of which wasn't from the shelves and wasn't even legal. Actually, most of the things Fred and George sold were borderline-illegal, like the love potions, but no one really cared. The Twins were just too likeable to prosecute, unless you were Snape or McGonagall. Anyway, Harry had used his 'key' (which was actually an overpowered Reductor spell) to blow the storeroom door off its hinges, and then he'd basically just helped himself to some of everything and left a huge bag of gold on the counter, which was probably more than he owed Fred and George for what he took, actually, but he felt bad for destroying part of their store. Well, no, he didn't, because he had a head injury, but he was too lazy to count out the money. And he was having too much fun making the Veritaserum girl inflate all of the Voldemort sex dolls and leave them around the shop, just for the hell of it.

On his way back up Diagon Alley, he happened to pass a building that vaguely resembled Madam Puddifoot's tea shop. Harry had a grudge against that place ever since his disastrous date with Cho Chang there in his fifth year. He also had a trunk full of explosives. All of this became a hundred times more dangerous when you considered the fact that Harry had no impulse control (because his frontal lobes were basically paste now) and really couldn't be arsed to read directions.

And that was how the building that vaguely resembled Madam Puddifoot's tea shop ended up with bright, neon-purple flames billowing out of its windows. By the time the Aurors arrived and realized it was arson, Harry was long gone, though. Well, no. Not really. He wasn't really long gone. He was watching from across the street. But he went into a Quidditch shop a few stores down when the Aurors appeared at the eye-wateringly bright scene of the crime.

"How may I help you?" said the fat, pimply-faced idiot behind the counter of the Quidditch supplies shop when Harry entered.

"I need a broom," said Harry. "A really fast one."

He had his own broom already, of course - but for what he was about to do, it would be better to get a new one. There would be a lot of broom-abuse in the near future, and he liked the Firebolt too much to let it get destroyed.

"You're Harry Potter!" the fat, pimply-faced idiot exclaimed. "You're the Chosen One!"

"What did I get chosen for?" asked Harry. "I always got chosen last for any sport in primary school."

"You're going to save us from You-Know-Who!" said the fat, pimply-faced idiot, as if it should be obvious. Well, it actually should have been, Harry thought. Even this fat, pimply-faced idiot knew who he was, which, of course, meant that everyone who wasn't a fat, pimply-faced idiot did as well. And that meant they all knew how he'd come face-to-face with Voldemort about eighty billion times in the last five years.

"Can I have the fastest broom in the shop?" Harry said. "Like, really fast. Faster than really fast. So fast it'll rip your moobs off."

The fat, pimply-faced idiot handed Harry a broom. "It's the new Firebolt 9001," he explained. "It's twice as fast as the old - Wait a second, where are you going with that?"

"I'm leaving," said Harry, as if it should be obvious. Well, it should have been, he thought. He was headed for the door with it.

"But you haven't paid for it!"

"I don't want to pay for it," Harry told him. "I can afford it, but buying it from you would mean perpetuating the oppressive economic system that is capitalism. And plus, I just don't like you very much. You're fat, you're pimply, and you're an idiot, and I just can't abide that."

The fat, pimply idiot evolved into a fat, pimply idiot with a bulging vein in his forehead. "Listen here!" he said angrily. "You may be some spoiled brat, and you may get free hand outs from every other place in the world, but I won't have you stealing from my shop! I won't!" He came out from behind the counter.

Before he reached Harry, his arms fell off.

"I'm going now," said Harry, as if he hadn't just made the man's arms fall off. "It was nice not doing business with you. Thanks for the broom."

"You come back with that!" the fat, pimply idiot with the bulging vein in his forehead and no arms shouted, even as Harry mounted the broom and flew straight through the glass display window in the front instead of using the door.

* * *

><p>Somehow, Dolores Umbridge had managed to retain her position as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic when Cornelius Fudge (who'd already twice been voted 'Most Incompetent Leader of Modern Times' via unsolicited mass write-ins to the Daily Prophet) resigned. There was much speculation about how she managed to do this. A lot of it involved theories about Rufus Scrimgeour's penis, and some of the stories that appeared in the tabloids were so horrifically lewd that it became common for Obliviators to be called up to the new Minister's office after he'd read his morning paper for the sole purpose of removing the imagery of what he'd just read from his mind.<p>

One story, which appeared in the _Quibbler_ under the extremely mysterious by-line Doogevol Anul - and, incidentally, was read by Harry Potter over the summer, before his life-changing head injury occurred - claimed that Umbridge was, in fact, capable of attracting a mate without the direct use of the Imperius Curse, a theory that had been rejected by all of the other journalists following/making up the story. Furthermore, Doogevol Anul said that it was actually a man called Yaxley (who was using the Imperius Curse on exactly forty-nine point one percent of the Ministry of Magic) who Imperiused Scrimgeour to sleep with Umbridge, rather than Umbridge doing so herself.

Also, if you believed the article, Scrimgeour was actually gay and involved with a man called Pious Thicknesse (whose surname was actually pronounced '_Steam-Driven Turkish State Opera'_).

The article was, interestingly enough, closer to the truth than any of the others: Umbridge was having an affair with Yaxley (it was an affair because Yaxley's missing wife was still alive, hidden under the floorboards of his home, drugged with a Drought of Living Death. He did it for the insurance money, which was extremely stupid because she was part-Veela, and it was only about five hundred Galleons). Yaxley actually did have a lot of people under the Imperius Curse, but it was more like seventeen point something percent of the Ministry, not forty nine point one. Scrimgeour was gay, but not with Pious Thicknesse. The article was completely and utterly wrong about the pronunciation of Pious Thicknesse/Pious Steam-Driven Turkish State Opera's name, though.

And Fudge never really did bake any goblins into pies like the article claimed, although he fantasized about it a few times.

Anyway, long story short: Yaxley got together with Umbridge because both of them were so ugly they could only find equals in each other, and it was Yaxley who put Scrimgeour under the Imperius Curse (briefly, because that maintaining that seventeen point something percent was very taxing) and made him sign a law saying that 'Dolores Umbridge will be the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic for the rest of eternity, even after she's dead'. He had to Imperius the whole Wizengamot to get it past Dumbledore.

Which was why Umbridge was still sitting in her office, surrounded by too much pink and too many stupid little kittens. It had absolutely nothing to do with Rufus Scrimgeour's penis, or Pious Steam-Driven Turkish State Opera.

Now, Umbridge liked to look down upon people and see the effects of her laws in action (e.g., real wizards cursing mudbloods for no particular reason, Dementors performing the Kiss on werewolves just because, and so on), so naturally she had a huge window in her office that overlooked the Atrium. It was the best view you could get in an underground building.

It was also what Harry Potter headed for when he came rocketing out of the Floo on his brand-new Nimbus 9001 broomstick.

Sadly, there had already had a great many objects thrown at Umbridge's window by about ninety point zero one percent of Britain - including most of the unincarcerated Death Eaters, at some point or another, which said something about just how unlikeable she was - so her window was magically reinforced. Fortunately, so was the Nimbus 9001, and furthermore it also had very efficient shock absorbers, so in the end Harry just smacked against it and ricocheted off toward the ceiling faster than flies fled from Umbridge's far-too-long tongue every summer.

It was also sad - but this time, it was sad for Umbridge, not Harry - that Harry was such a good flier. He snatched a map out of some douchebag's hand as he flew past and read it while he headed toward the elevators.

"Holy shit!" someone below cried. "It's Harry Potter!"

Just because, Harry dropped a dungbomb on them.

"Hmm," he said to himself, "I wonder how well this broom can brake and turn." He took out his wand and pointed it at the elevators. "_Confrigo_." The elevator doors exploded. "_Confrigo_." The elevator and the people inside it exploded in a shower of sparks, metal, gore, body parts, more body parts, more sparks, more body parts, and a lot of paper memos. Harry flew inside the elevator shaft and turned upward at a ninety point zero one degree angle to avoid becoming paste against the back wall like all the other people in it now were.

Upstairs, Percy Weasley was being a sycophantic Ministry lackey and doing something sycophantic and lackey-ish - specifically, he was getting himself coffee - when the elevator doors exploded down the hall and Harry Potter raced out on a Nimbus 9001 broomstick. As he lay on the floor, covered in boiling hot coffee, bits of plaster, and the entrails of a co-worker who was less fortunate than he, Percy decided to take a good, long, hard look at his life. Just as he was coming to a great realization, most of the ceiling, which had been knocked loose by the exploding doors, fell on him.

Harry, meanwhile, had already sped into a maze of Ministry office cubicles at a hundred and twenty seven miles per hour, howling: "GET OUT OF MY WAY, YOU PRIMITIVE SCREWHEADS!" He found the Nimbus 9001 broomstick was excellent when it came to braking and turning, and also breaking people's necks by crashing into them and almost getting flipped off of his broom, which he did as often as he could.

It was a bit of strange luck, but one of the wizards whose neck Harry broke went flying into the wall of a cubicle, buttocks-first; he happened to be one of those people who stored his wand in his back pocket, and when his wand was subjected to the intense pressure of the wall and the wizard (he was a very fat wizard), it discharged a burst of magic that decapitated Albert Runcorn with such force that his severed head ended up embedded in a door.

In the approximately thirty eight point nine five one zero two-two-two-two-two-two four seconds it took Harry to navigate the cubicle maze, Umbridge had left her office and run for it down the opposite hall, toward the other elevator. Unfortunately, she was very out-of-shape, so she wasn't able to outrun Harry's one hundred and twenty seven miles per hour Nimbus 9001 broomstick.

"Your time has come, Ugly Toad Woman!" Harry shouted, hovering before her like some demonic god with a severe frontal lobe injury. "_Expelliarmus_."

Umbridge's new wand, which was even shorter than her old one (the old one was seven inches; this one was only six) flew into Harry's hand, and he snapped it and threw it away.

"How dare you attack a Ministry official!" screeched Umbridge as she tried to run back toward her office, and then back toward the elevator, and then back toward her office, then back toward the elevator, then her office, then the elevator. Harry kept flying over her and coming down to block her path every time she changed direction. "I'll have you expelled! Imprisoned! Executed! Kissed!"

"Dolores 'Toad' Umbridge! You stand accused of making me write '_I must not tell lies_' on the back of my hand with that stupid blood quill a hundred million times, making retarded laws that got pretty cool people in trouble for no reason, being ugly, being toad-like, wearing too much pink while committing the above offenses, and generally being a complete bitch to everyone. How do you plead?"

"How dare you! I am not some common criminal!" Umbridge howled.

"Not guilty, then? Okay." Harry stuck her feet to the floor when she tried to run away again. "As the judge, jury, and executioner of this mock trial, I hereby find you guilty on all charges and sentence you to whatever horrible, painful, depressing, murderous punishment I come up with in the next three seconds."

"You will not! You will step off of that broom and surrender to the Aurors, who are undoubtedly on their way! It's people like you who let our world get overrun by mudbloods and halfbreeds -"

He ignored the toad-woman.

Heeh. Heh heeh. Heeeeeee. Heh hehh. Heh.

Toad-woman. Toad-woman... Hmm...

"I'm going to do Human Transfiguration now," Harry announced with a grand, sweeping gesture.

"I AM THE SENIOR UNDERSECRETARY TO THE MINISTER, AND YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME, YOU NASTY LYING HALF-BLOOD PIECE OF SH-"

He did a series of complex wand movements that he'd seen a few times in a book, or maybe in his dreams, and anyway he probably wasn't imitating them as exactly as he should have, and he said a spell, and Dolores Umbridge became a gigantic toad.

Well, no.

Not really.

Not _really_.

"RRHRRRHRNBRRHRHRBNRHRHRHR," Umbridge croaked. This would have been translated to mean 'Kill me' if anyone present spoke Toad (Neville Longbottom did, but he wasn't here now, was he).

Because he was only sixteen and not very good at Human Transfiguration, and also because he'd sort of done it badly on purpose, Harry had turned Umbridge into a grotesque half-human, half-toad hybrid that looked more like a fat, ugly, disgusting pile of random human and toad parts than an actual coherent creature. It smelled terrible, too.

Wow, that's disgusting. Now you look on the outside like you do on th... Hmm..." Harry paused as an idea came into his head. A really horrible, disgusting, sickening idea that only someone with a severe brain injury would ever act on. "Cool." He pointed his wand at the Umbridge-toad and said, "_Expulso_."

The Umbridge-toad exploded and Harry got a face full of its guts.

Then the elevator doors opened with a cheerful _ding_, and the squad of Aurors inside, who were prepared for a Death Eater attack, found themselves staring open-mouthed at the intestines-draped saviour on the Nimbus 9001 broomstick, and at the still-quivering mass of mutated, exploded toadflesh sitting in front of him.

* * *

><p>Exactly five minutes and twelve seconds later, Headbastard of Hogwarts Albus Dumbledore nearly choked to death on one of his beloved lemon drops.<p>

He'd been coordinating search efforts for Harry from Grimmauld Place's kitchen, which mostly consisted of sitting around, sucking on lemon drops, which were deliciously sour and extremely addictive. The truth of the matter was that Harry was probably dead, or as good as, so Albus had moved on to Neville Longbottom as a potential Chosen One. He'd already formed a rough plan for how to mould Neville into the perfect blunderbuss - er, weapon. Damn you, Aberforth - and begun to adjust his other schemes to fit this new one.

Sadly, Albus would have to let Bellatrix live for a while longer, although he might be able to get Morgan Avery to duel Molly Weasley to the death instead; the latter Death Eater was also capable of producing ear-shattering sounds when enraged. The problem was that Avery had a tendency to burn everything she came in contact with using Fiendfyre, so he doubted Molly would last very long. Not that that would really be too much of a loss, though, Albus thought as the aforementioned Weasley demanded to know where Harry was for the three hundredth time that night, and nearly shattered his eardrums in the process.

"We will find him, Molly," Albus assured her. "Do not worry."

"But he could be dying!" shrieked Mrs. Weasley. "He could be alone and hurt - oh, the poor dear - we've got to do something!"

"We are already doing something," the Headmaster reminded her patiently. _You could be doing something, too, _he thought, _if you weren't standing around here yelling at me_... "The entire Order is looking for Harry. We will find him."

The chances of them actually finding Harry were about one in infinity. By now, Voldemort had probably killed Harry, drunk his blood, ground his body up in a meat grinder, cooked the result into hamburger patties, fed these to dogs, killed these dogs, burned them, scattered the ashes over half of Antarctica, and then burned all of Antarctica just to be certain he was dead.

But Albus didn't tell anyone that, because he was trying to placate their panicked chicken-without-a-head hysterics by sending out search parties before he declared Harry dead.

Fortunately, Mrs Weasley finally went away when Albus suggested that she check to see if he'd snuck into Ginevra's room to engage in inappropriate activities with her. She was very overprotective of her daughter, but he didn't blame her; he blamed the fact that she'd gone through eight children without having a daughter... Well, no. He did blame her. No sane parent barred their child from visiting their (completely insane, but still) neighbour on the grounds that it might lead to the initiation of a Sapphic relationship. For a woman who'd had nine children, Molly Weasley was quite a prude.

In any case, Ginevra was no longer important in Albus Dumbledore's scheming; she was far too aggressive to make a good match for young Neville Longbottom. If it weren't for the fact that she was female, he would have assumed she had an extra Y chromosome. Anyway, Neville required someone less forceful to bring out feelings of love and affection.

Perhaps Luna Lovegood, Ginevra's psychotic neighbour, could be paired with Neville. She may have been insane, but her delusions would make her fairly easy to manipulate, wouldn't they? Besides, he could always have her bumped off once Neville had fulfilled the Prophecy. There was also Hannah Abbot, though he hadn't paid as much attention to her as he had to Lovegood (which wasn't much) since she wasn't even associated with Harry. Yes, Luna Lovegood would be the better choice of the two, given the time frame he had to work with.

Albus Dumbledore never even considered that her apparent madness might not actually be madness at all, or that she might not be so easy to manipulate, even if she _was_ insane. He really should have considered the second one, in particular, especially after that time he tried to convince Evan Rosier to come back to the Light and received severed heads by owl post every morning in the Great Hall for two weeks afterward.

Even less important than arranging a match for Neville Longbottom, but still relevant, was the Prefect arrangement at Hogwarts, which might have to change if Harry Potter was no longer the Chosen One. Malfoy would stay, of course, because there was just no one who was as much of a pointy-faced, pompous, arrogant arse as Draco Malfoy, and no one in history was ever as rage-inducing as him, except maybe Umbridge and his fellow Prefect Pansy Parkinson. Parkinson was where the difficulty lay: Albus couldn't decide whether to give her the badge again for her sixth year or replace her with either Daphne Greengrass or Tracey Davis. It was a tough decision; Parkinson was mean, unhelpful, arrogant, cruel, not particularly intelligent, unfriendly, belligerent, rude, disrespectful, borderline-sociopathic, blood-obsessed, irresponsible, a thousand other single and combinations of adjectives, and generally not very good at her job.

On the other hand, she was... er... well, Albus was a firm believer in second chances, so it was a tough decision. And besides, Greengrass was so cold people had to go to the hospital wing for hypothermia treatment after sitting in the same room with her, and Davis's glasses had to be at least three times the size of her eyes. He ignored the fact that Pansy Parkinson looked like the result of a human and a pug having their DNA crossed, and was about as intelligent.

In any case, Albus was leaning back in his chair at the kitchen table, sucking on his lemon drop with his eyes closed, enjoying the intellectual pleasure of scheming and controlling everyone's lives like a puppet master or a chess player, when Nymphadora Tonks came out of the fire in the next room, ran toward the kitchen, tripped over an empty firewhisky bottle Sirius had left on the floor around Christmas of last year and no one, not even Kreacher, had ever bothered to pick up, nearly broke her neck, managed not to, got back up, dusted herself off, swore, remembered what she was there to do, ran back toward the kitchen, and tripped again, this time over the troll's leg umbrella stand, which Kreacher had quietly placed in her way when she was distracted by her previous fall. This time, she decided not to risk her life further, and just yelled to Albus that Harry James Potter was now the Most Wanted Man in all of Wizarding Britain, since he'd just killed twenty six Ministry employees, turned Dolores Umbridge into a human toad and blown her up in front of a squad of Aurors, tried to blow up said Aurors, and then raced off on a Nimbus 9001 broomstick that had been reported stolen by a man with no arms just half an hour before.

After a few moments of _ccckhaaccckk_ing up the lemon drop, Albus spat out the delicious but potentially deadly sweet. "Where is young Harry now?" he demanded.

"He's still in the Ministry, as far as I know," said Tonks. She was trying to navigate her way back to the Floo without breaking any more bones. She'd just gotten out of St. Mungo's a day ago after falling down a flight of stairs. Well, three flights of stairs, actually. Three. And a half. Nobody ever believed her when she said 'I fell down the stairs', though, so she usually just said 'My boyfriend punched me' and tried not to date anybody. It was a lonely life, but it was necessary. Her last relationship had ended with the man fleeing the country to get away from her friends.

"How recent is your knowledge?"

"About... three minutes old, maybe?"

Albus Dumbledore raced over to the fireplace and practically dove into it, knocking Tonks headfirst into the troll's leg umbrella stand, which had mysteriously changed places around the same time Kreacher had taken a break from... Well, it involved Walburgia's portrait, and that's more than anyone needs to know.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong>

The first person who spots the Evil Dead reference can have their OC written into the story later on, assuming I like/dislike him or her enough.

The laugh Harry does while he's thinking about Transfiguring Umbridge into a toad is one of Ren's laughs from _The Ren and Stimpy Show_. It's the one he does in 'Space Madness', right after he tells Stimpy not to touch the History Eraser Button. It'll appear from time to time in future stories, like the Punctum Hex.

This will probably be the amount of time it takes for me to update from now on. I won't apologize. I'm the one who's providing you with my genius, not the other way around. Look at it this way: I hate all of you. I just withhold these to make you miserable. Does that make it better? Do you feel vindicated? Does your rage feel just and righteous?

Yeah, I bet it does.

This chapter was beta-read by the rotten, reanimated corpse of TuesdayNovember, I think. The face is starting to fall off, so it's hard to tell. I think so, though. Yes... Yes, I asked, and it's giving me a thumbs up.


	4. Mrs Weasley's Terrible Parenting Skills

_sHaRiNg Is CaRiNg... EvEn WhEn It FuCkS uP mY fOrMaTtiNg..._

**Some things you should know:**

There were some problems when this was being uploaded, so if there's anything weird (besides the usual), point it out, please. [this is where a comment on your inability to distinguish normal writing from mistakes because you're stupid goes]

There's not really much violence in this chapter, but fear not. It will be made up for in Chapter Five. This is just a transitional chapter... The page you are on is but a lull in the shelling... a state of being in which you exist between violence and violence, though it is short and you will soon awaken from this dream... a point on the journey to bloodshed... a detour on the path of darkness... simply because you cannot see the violence here does not mean it will not someday return, and that it will not have a beard and wear sandals and have a halo around its head... You know what? I'm not going to bother. Just read. Nothing I say penetrates your concrete skulls anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>HARRY POTTER AND THE LIFE-CHANGING HEAD INJURY<strong>

_a formerly dead reptile_

**Chapter Four: Mrs Weasley's Terrible Parenting Skills**

* * *

><p>The sight of Albus Dumbledore coming out of an open fireplace in the middle of the Atrium would have been enough to make some people forget about, for about half a second or so, what they had just witnessed involving Harry Potter. This was because had there been a group of people right in front of the fireplace, Albus would have crashed into them like they were pins in his favourite leisure activity. But there was no one in front of the Floo, and so when Albus came out headfirst with his hands in front of him like he was diving into a pool, he simply flew through the air and landed on the floor with a painful crunching sound.<p>

When he had straightened up and dusted himself off, and ascertained that none of his bones were broken, he looked around. There was a hole the size of a dragon in one wall, and it was spewing melted... whatever the wall was made of. Several charred corpses were piled up in lewd positions in front of it.

Shit.

"Dumbledore!" It was a very familiar voice, but Albus couldn't place it...

Then he saw the speaker, puffing toward him.

"Cornelius, what a... pleasant... surprise," said Albus. He didn't really mean it, of course. Nothing involving Fudge could be considered pleasant. "I'm afraid we'll have to chat later; I'm rather busy handling this whole Harry Potter mess..."

"So am I!" Fudge skidded to a stop in front of Albus. "I'm in charge here, Dumbledore!"

Albus sighed. The poor man had finally snapped. Well, he'd snapped a long time ago, what with denying Voldemort's return when Voldemort had a stick shoved up his rear and was using him like a puppet and all, but now he was obviously just plain crazy. Albus didn't have time to indulge Fudge's delusions, though.

"I was under the impression you no longer worked here," he said, "seeing as you resigned before being voted out of office."

Under normal circumstances, this would have been impossible to do, but Fudge was a special case, in more ways than one. The same day he resigned, he was voted out of office via an overwhelming number of write-ins - probably by the same people who did the Daily Prophet poll write-ins - before anyone realized he had resigned. The most interesting thing about it was that people continued to vote him out of office even after the news broke, leading to Fudge receiving a number of votes that would have effectively removed him from the position of Minister of Magic eight times over. And it was all in the span of one day, before some buzz-kill (probably Percy Weasley) thought to tell people to stop voting him out.

"I am the new Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic," Fudge blustered. "Potter killed Dolores, and it was in her will that I take whatever job she had at the time of her death. She wrote it before I left office, though, so I think she was trying to demote me... I can't understand why she'd do that..."

Albus scowled. Magical wills were almost impossible to override. It had taken him a lot of fucking about with time, space, and other such things one really shouldn't fuck about with to put Harry with the Dursleys, as there was an explicit statement from Lily within the Potters' will that 'Harry should not be put with my sister and her husband under any circumstances, even if they are the last people on earth. I would rather you gave my son to Voldemort or Bellatrix Lestrange than to the Dursleys.'

Insane woman, that Lily Potter was. Harry had turned out all ri... Oh.

Well, apparently it ran in the family.

"...press conferences and campaign donations," Fudge was saying.

"Hm?" said Albus.

"I was talking about how I'm going to capture Potter."

"You're not going to capture Harry, Cornelius. He's possessed by Voldemort. There's nothing we can -"

"You know," Fudge interrupted, as if Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, etc., wasn't talking, "I wonder who's going to have to kill He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, if Potter's gone off the deep end. It'll probably be someone powerful. Maybe we'll need another Chosen One."

Albus was about to tell Fudge not to worry, because he'd take care of it, when he suddenly imagined how heroic it would be to have Neville Longbottom or one of his circle of friends (which Albus would handpick, in addition to Luna Lovegood) destroy Harry Potter, the tragic hero who fell to his own inner turmoil and became irreversibly possessed by Lord Voldemort. Yes, that would be so very heroic. After all, Albus had killed Adolf Hitler, Gellert Grindelwald's second-in-command, before killing Gellert himself. Granted, he'd killed Hitler several years before World War II even began and replaced him with a look-alike who would destroy the enemy from within, but still. It was extremely heroic.

He would use Harry Potter's fate to shape young Neville into the perfect weapon... yes... yes... it was brilliant... Neville would not dare stray from the Light after seeing how Harry fell when he dabbled in the Dark Arts... or whatever crap Albus made up to scare him into obedience...

"Cornelius," said he, "that is the first intelligent thing you have ever said."

Fudge put on his winning politician smile. "I am quite intelligent, aren - _WAIT A MINUTE _-"

Before Fudge reached any further understanding of what he'd heard, the rotund politician was knocked over by Mrs Weasley, who, in a monumental display of terrible parenting, came through the Floo into the Ministry dragging Ginny in one hand and Luna Lovegood in the other. Ginny actually screamed when she saw where they were, as she was wearing only her knickers, a shirt, and a pair of shoes, and her mother appeared utterly oblivious to how monumentally humiliating this experience was for her. Luna was barefoot and wearing eye-rapeingly bright neon purple pyjamas, and also appeared utterly oblivious, though it was to the world in general as opposed to anything in particular.

And everyone who saw them (quite a few people did) had to wonder just what the hell had led to this situation.

* * *

><p><strong>EARLIER...<strong>

Around the time Harry was blowing up Umbridge, Ginevra Weasley was having a slumber party at the Burrow with some of her friends. Well, no. It was just one friend. One dotty, insane, crazy, mad, loony, psychotic, bizarre, insert adjective here friend.

How she'd managed to get Luna into her house with her mother's ever-increasing paranoia about her sex life was a story on par with the Greek epics. Part of it involved telling Mrs Weasley that she and Luna were plotting to give Harry (this was about a day before the head injury occurred) a love potion that would make him want to marry Ginny instead of screw her, and _then_ give him a regular love potion. This placated Mrs Weasley's fears of both lesbian sex and wild orgies long enough for her allow Ginny have her slumber party with Luna.

Surprisingly, there was no lesbian sex, and there were no wild orgies. I mean come on, they were only fifteen. And fifteen year old girls are never sexually active. Ever. Despite what some people say. People like Mrs Weasley.

But seriously, they weren't having lesbian sex or wild orgies.

No, they were sitting cross-legged on Ginny's bed, making conversation in the night, since it was still night (what was the late Umbridge doing in her office in the middle of the night, you ask? Well, she was very, very dedicated to her anti-werewolf bills, you heathen half-breed lover. And the Veritaserum girl actually had severe manic-depressive disorder and hadn't slept in three days, which was why she was in Fred and George's shop instead of getting some shut-eye).

Ginny was trying, rather futilely, to explain to Luna the purpose of makeup, because the latter never wore any and didn't even understand why anyone would want to. Being socially isolated for most of her life had left Luna very stunted in some ways. This was one of the many, many ways in which she was a lot taller than everybody else, figuratively, and yet she chose to lie sideways most of the time.

"But why would you want to cover up your real face?" Luna inquired, thoroughly confused.

"I'm not covering my face up, I'm just making myself look more attractive," Ginny explained patiently. "That way people will notice me more - when I want them to, that is."

"But I think you're very pretty already," said Luna. She smiled at Ginny, and then looked thoughtful. "I also think a lot of people who wear makeup would look much better without it."

Now Ginny frowned. She liked Luna, but the other girl was still oblivious to the point after having it explained to her three times. "It's not about looking good," she said. "It's like - ah - mating calls, I guess."

"Ohhhh..." Luna nodded, finally getting it. "Like how the female Skree paints herself up with multicoloured mucus in order to attract multiple males, who then proceed to stick her to a flat surface with their detachable beaks and take turns -"

"Yes, that's exactly it," Ginny cut her off, not wanting to hear any more about Skree mating habits.

Whatever a Skree was.

She sincerely hoped they were just another product of Luna's surreal, borderline-Freudian imagination, because the alternative was that she'd heard about them from her father or read about them in the _Quibbler_, which was edited by her father, so it was disturbing no matter how you looked at it.

"But why would you want to paint yourself with makeup to attract a mate?" Luna asked, and Ginny felt all of her triumph at having successfully conveyed a semi-meaningful message to the girl all by herself evaporate.

"Didn't you just... tell me why?" said Ginny slowly.

Luna frowned. "No," she said. "I told you why Skrees paint themselves with multicoloured mucus to attract mates. But an important and distinct feature of Skrees is that they lack personality, so they're all the same. I like to think that if I ever attract a mate, they'll be attracted to my personality and not my appearance."

"Luna, they're not going to be attracted to your personality if they don't notice you in the first place," said Ginny. But then she remembered that she was talking to a girl who wore radishes for earrings. "Never mind. You're a special case. I think you're better off without makeup, anyway; you wouldn't know what to do with it, and the end result would be very awkward."

She cringed a little, imagining what might happen if Luna decided to go into fashion as a career. People would probably kill themselves to get away from all the bright colours. Frighteningly, she knew Luna already made some of her own clothes; the neon-purple pyjamas she was wearing were obviously among these.

"There's a low trying to drill through your window," said Luna suddenly.

"There is not a low trying to drill through my window, Luna," Ginny told her.

"Yes, there is," Luna insisted. "Can't you hear it tapping?"

Ginny snorted. "I wouldn't be able to hear anything if there was a Muggle bomb going off outside. Mum puts up Silencing Spells so she can climb around and spy on me without my knowledge, and are you talking about an _owl_?" She'd finally looked at the window and noticed Hedwig, Harry Potter's snowy white owl, tapping on the glass. Her stomach flip-flopped.

"Yes, that's another word for them," said Luna as Ginny opened the window and let Hedwig in. "Oh, look. She's got a rettel."

Ginny took the rettel - _LETTER_ - from Hedwig, thanked the owl so she wouldn't bite her fingers off just for the hell of it - Harry's owl was notoriously sadistic when Harry wasn't looking - and opened it. It read:

'_Ginny,_

_Could you take care of Hedwig for the rest of the summer? I've killed the Dursleys using illegal Dark Magic, and I don't think she'd be very happy having to run from the Aurors with me. Say hello to Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna, and also please pass along a message to Mundungus Fletcher if you see him: 'thanks for the wands, you smelly, flaky fuck'._

_Harry_

_P.S. I got hit in the head. I recommend it. It will change your life._

"Whah...?" said Ginny, dumbfounded.

"Has he moved to New Zealand?" Luna inquired. She was playing with Hedwig, which basically meant she was letting the owl/low bite her fingers until they bled and not really showing much interest in doing anything to stop it.

"Has he moved... No! No, he says he's killed the Dursleys."

"Oh," said Luna dreamily. "That's nice."

Ginny reached over, grabbed the other girl by the shoulders, and shook her very hard. "No-It-Is-Not-Nice!" she growled. She would have yelled, but she had no idea if her mother was outside the door, and her own Silencing Charms weren't that good yet.

"Oh. I guess it isn't. But they weren't very nice either, so it's sort of fair." Sometimes Ginny's physical abuse of Luna worked to bring her into a slightly more functional state of reality, and most of the time it unintentionally made her worse for a while.

"I don't give a damn about his family! What about Harry? He says he's on the run from the Aurors!" Ginny threw herself back onto her pillow. "What if they put him in Azkaban?"

"I doubt they would do that," Luna told her calmly.

"Luna... you also doubt that Spain is really a country."

"It isn't," said Luna. "It's a territory of Kazakhstan."

"We've got to go help Harry," Ginny declared. "Come on." She leapt off the bed and grabbed her discarded clothes from earlier that day - despite wearing makeup, Ginny was enough of a tomboy (actually, she was more of a tomboy than most boys) that she just left everything lying around. Her room was always a mess; it was worse than Ron's, actually - stripped off her pyjamas, and was just starting to get dressed when Mrs Weasley happened to come in, intending to warn her daughter and her daughter's friend that Harry Potter had gone crazy and might come through their window to try to seduce them like some modern-day Don Juan.

Now, Mrs Weasley was a bit of a prude, as her family and friends knew. In fact, anyone who knew her was aware of this. _In fact_, Mrs Weasley's prudishness was legendary throughout the Wizarding World. She was the most puritanical bitch you could ever imagine, which is twice as hilarious because she popped out babies at a rate nearly equal to that of the Duggar family.

But she did it while she was married to Arthur Weasley, and she _did it_ while in the missionary position. Sex, you see, was only for reproduction; it was disgusting and unnatural any other way. If you were to count the number of times they'd _done it_, you would find it was also _exactly_ the number of times Molly Weasley had had children.

Arthur Weasley loved his wife dearly, but he was a very, very unhappy man, _if you know what I mean_.

One of the few things Mrs Weasley did approve of was the idea of marrying her daughter off to Harry Potter. It wasn't because he was rich or famous; she didn't care much about that. No, it was because he was extremely repressed and wouldn't take advantage of Ginny until Mrs Weasley allowed them to get married.

Well, until he went crazy/became possessed and started offing people.

One of the many things Mrs Weasley _didn't_ approve of was Luna Lovegood, because Luna was obviously one of those people who would 'try anything twice'. The Weasley woman didn't want her daughter turning into a lesbian because of some crazy schizophrenic blonde girl's radish fetish, or whatever. And although she had been placated somewhat by Ginny's and Luna's promises that they were plotting to ensnare Harry Potter as Ginny's future husband, she was still naturally predisposed to see every situation in the worst light possible.

So when she opened the door of her daughter's room and saw Ginny wearing only her knickers while Luna Lovegood sat on the bed in the most bizarre outfit she'd ever laid eyes upon, Mrs Weasley naturally assumed that there was something extremely untoward going on in that room.

Her shriek was enough to bring even Luna out of her perpetual stupor. Somewhat. Enough to stop staring at Ginny, anyway.

"Oh, hello, Mrs Weasley," said the blonde girl. "How are you toni-"

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY DAUGHTER?"

"Mum!" Ginny yelled. "I'm getting changed, damn it!"

"A LIKELY STORY!"

"Ginevra was about to go save Harry Potter from certain, painful death at the hands of rogue Auror/Niffler crossbreeds," Luna explained, and then she frowned. "...I think. Am I remembering it right?"

"YOU WERE GOING TO HAVE AN ORGY WITH HARRY POTTER, LUNA LOVEGOOD, ROGUE AURORS, AND NIFFLERS?" screeched Mrs Weasley. "HOW DID I RAISE SUCH A DEGENERATE DAUGHTER?"

"WHY DO YOU ALWAYS THINK ABOUT ORGIES?" Ginny shouted back. "DO YOU EVER THINK ABOUT ANYTHING BESIDES ORGIES? IS THERE SOMETHING ON YOUR MIND THAT YOU'D LIKE TO TELL EVERYBODY, MUM?"

"DON'T YOU DARE TALK THAT WAY TO ME, YOUNG LADY! GET DRESSED! AND YOU!" The puritan-banshee-housewife jabbed her finger at Luna. "YOU! I WILL..."

But they never found out what she would do, because she spied Hedwig.

"THAT'S HARRY'S OWL!"

Hedwig shrieked right back at her: '_No shit, woman! Stop destroying my valuable hearing!_'

"Yes, Harry sent us a letter about how he killed his relatives and was on the run from - _Oh_! I remember it now..." said Luna. Even she had to cringe at the noise Mrs Weasley made.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME ABOUT THIS BEFORE?"

"WE COULDN'T!" yelled Ginny. "WE WERE BUSY TRYING NOT TO GO DEAF!"

"STOP BEING IMMATURE, GINNY!" Mrs Weasley howled back. She grabbed the letter and stuffed it into her apron pocket. Then she grabbed Hedwig and tried to stuff her into the apron pocket as well, but the owl pecked violently at her until she let go and flew out the window, perching on a branch on the tree outside.

"You have to work up to it," said Luna, holding up her bloody hands. "I'd advise letting her bite you for a while first; otherwise, it's a bit difficult to handle."

"SHUT UP." The Weasley matriarch seemed to be in permanent screech mode, even when she wasn't screeching. "You're going back to your house and never coming here again!"

"Mum, really, can you just -" Ginny began.

Mrs Weasley grabbed her by the wrist, but thankfully didn't try to stuff her into her apron pocket. "You are coming with me," She-Who-Was-Possibly-More-Insane-Than-Bellatrix-Lestrange-And-You-Know-Who-Put-Together said. "If he's sending you letters, he's probably stalking you. In fact, he's probably climbing that tree outside your window right now. We're going to see the Headmaster! He'll know what to do!"

She jabbed her finger in Luna's direction.

"I'll send _you_ home later. You will _stay here_ in the meantime," Mrs Weasley ordered the blonde girl. "We are going to have a very long talk about your sexual proclivities when this mess with Harry is sorted out!"

"All right," Luna agreed dreamily.

Mrs Weasley then proceeded to stick Luna to the bed using her wand and started dragging Ginny toward the door.

"Mum, god damn it - I'm still getting dressed -" Ginny, luckily, managed to grab a shirt before Mrs Weasley got her too far from her pile of half-clean clothes.

"Goodbye, Ginevra. I'll see you later."

"OH NO YOU WON'T!"

"I won't?"

"NO!"

"But I want to."

The banshee-woman eyed Luna suspiciously. "On second thought," she declared, "I'm not letting you out of my sight, you blonde, bug-eyed harlot." She undid the Sticking Charm, grabbed Luna by the arm, and dragged her off the bed as Ginny pulled her shirt over her head.

"Oof," said Luna when she hit the floor, not at all bothered by this assault.

A minute and thirty seconds later, the two Weasleys and Luna emerged from the fireplace at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place just in time to trip Tonks. Mrs Weasley yelled for Dumbledore, causing Walburga's portrait to start yelling back, and Tonks told them that Dumbledore had gone to the Ministry of Magic about eight seconds ago.

And that was just what the hell had led to that particular situation.

* * *

><p>"ALBUS!" Mrs Weasley screeched as Tonks came through the fireplace after them and promptly tripped over Fudge. "MY DAUGHTER HAS BEEN ENGAGING IN INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR! AND SHE HAS BEEN PLANNING ORGIES WITH HARRY POTTER! JUST LOOK AT THIS NOTE!"<p>

She threw the note at Dumbledore. It bounced off his crooked nose, and he had to bend down and pick it up before reading it carefully.

"I see," he mused after a moment.

"IT'S OBVIOUS THAT THEY'RE HAVING A SEXUAL RELATIONSHIP, ALBUS! MY POOR DAUGHTER! YOU-KNOW-WHO HAS TAKEN ADVANTAGE OF HER TWICE NOW!"

"After reading this, I do not believe Harry is possessed by Voldemort," said Dumbledore thoughtfully.

"WHAT-WHAT-WHAAAAT? BUT YOU SAID -"

"I know what I said! I did not have all the facts." Because he was never just plain wrong. Ever. "Harry has recently decided to carry out a revenge attack upon Dolores Umbridge; this leads me to believe that he is simply insane and severely lacking in self-control, rather than possessed and doing the bidding of Lord Voldemort..." So that explained why Harry was still alive after being killed by Voldemort: he wasn't killed by Voldemort in the first place.

But he was still going to have to rely on Neville; Harry had gone far too Dark to be the Chosen One. And although the only people who deserved second chances were the ones who would clearly abuse them, Dumbledore doubted Harry would remain insane forever. He'd probably feel guilty eventually and commit suicide, or something like that.

Mrs Weasley finally let go of Ginny, who immediately ran over to Tonks and started trying to make her conscious enough to Transfigure something into a skirt or a pair of trousers - anything to combat the humiliation of being 1/3rd naked in public - and Luna, who wandered over to the middle of the Atrium and began humming.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here?" Fudge demanded. "Albus, keep your prostitutes to yourself!"

"THAT IS MY DAUGHTER, NOT A PROSTITUTE!" screamed Mrs Weasley.

"WELL SHE'S CERTAINLY DRESSED LIKE A PROSTITUTE!" Fudge shouted back; surprisingly, he had a pretty good pair of lungs on him.

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT MY DAUGHTER IS A DEGENERATE SEX ADDICT! THIS MUST HAVE SOMETHING TO DO WITH THAT LOVEGOOD GIRL!" shrieked the banshee-woman. She looked to Dumbledore. "SHE HAS MY DAUGHTER UNDER SOME LESBIAN SEX SPELL! SHE'S PROBABLY MIND-CONTROLLING POOR HARRY TO DO ALL SORTS OF AWFUL THINGS!"

Dumbledore nodded as though he cared, which he really didn't. "And how did you come to this conclusion?" he inquired tiredly.

"I FOUND HER IN GINNY'S ROOM, WEARING A SEX COSTUME, TALKING ABOUT ORGIES WITH NIFFLERS AND AURORS TO MY UNDRESSING DAUGHTER NOT FIVE MINUTES AGO!"

"Did you know that nifflers get sick if you feed them leprechaun gold?" said Luna dreamily. Everyone turned and stared at her.

"Aren't you related to that oddball Xenophilius Lovegood?" Fudge asked.

"I think so," Luna replied, looking rather thoughtful. "I was last time I checked."

"Well, that figures. Only someone descended from that lunatic would wear... whatever the hell you're wearing."

"I agree." Unlike Fudge, Luna sounded as though she thought this was the best thing in the world. "I make my own clothes, you know. Daddy says I should start marketing my ideas to the general public." Nobody noticed, but Ginny choked at that, looking horrified.

Dumbledore noticed, then, that Luna Lovegood was right there in the Atrium. He hadn't noticed her before because most of the time he ignored everything that wasn't grand, Gryffindorish, and heroic-looking, and Luna was a human will-o-the-wisp, so it was like he was naturally colour-blind to her.

Anyway, this was good. He could, perhaps, use this opportunity to either indoctrinate the girl into his plan or force-feed her various potions and put spells on her until she did his bidding. Then he could begin re-arranging Neville Longbottom's life. Perhaps he would blow up Fudge in front of Lovegood, and then modify her memory so that she believed Harry Potter did it. Then he could ask Neville to comfort her, or some sappy trash of that nature, and they could bond over that. Blech.

"Molly, why don't you go join your sons in Diagon Alley," said Dumbledore, a big fake smile on his face. "Nymphadora and I will explain to these girls the dangers of..." He searched around for a buzzword, "...unprotected lesbian premarital sex followed by a cannibalistic ritual abortion."

Mrs Weasley looked doubtfully at Tonks, who was still out of it. Then she looked at Fudge, who was rotund and pudgy and probably not very trustworthy around young girls (or anyone at all for that matter, because he was a politician). "I DON'T THINK THAT'S A GOOD -" she began.

"Nonsense," Dumbledore interrupted cheerfully, casting a silent Imperius Curse on her as he said the word. "Your family needs you."

"YOU'RE RIGHT, ALBUS. IT'S FOR THE GREATER GOOD." Mrs Weasley grabbed some Floo powder, threw it in the nearest fireplace, yelled 'DIAGON ALLEY!', dove in, and was gone. At last.

At long last.

"Albus," said Fudge, in a rare moment of insight, "wasn't 'For the Greater Good' Gellert Grindelwald's..." He turned around and walked away, having been hit by a silent Imperius, Obliviate, and a hex that would make his toenails slowly turn into zucchinis.

"Now then," Dumbledore said, turning back to Luna, his fake grandfatherly smile back on his face. "Ms. Lovegood, are you familiar with a Mr. Neville Longbottom?"

However, Luna and her eye-raping neon purple pyjamas had wandered away.

"Shit," said Dumbledore. He ran off to find her.

This left Ginny and Tonks all alone. Within moments, Ginny had grabbed some Floo powder and thrown it into a fireplace. Screw saving Harry. She was very brave, but even Godric Gryffindor would have run away if he were in Ginny's situation.

Unfortunately, she was in such a rush to get out of the Ministry that she mangled her own Floo address rather badly, and so she ended up being sent to a completely random house. It was a large house. Huge, in fact. Bigger than Hogwarts. Bigger than anything Draco Malfoy could ever afford, even. Which was saying something. And there happened to be someone in the room.

Blaise Zabini, almost universally agreed upon to be the most attractive male anything to ever walk the halls of Hogwarts (possibly due to his Veela heritage), heir to one of the largest fortunes in the world, and a fairly powerful wizard to boot, blinked a couple of times in surprise when he saw a half-naked, confused, extremely attractive redhead emerge from his family's fireplace.

* * *

><p>Back in the Ministry, Yaxley had been skulking around the Atrium, trying to see if he could sneak into the restricted area where Umbridge's exploded remains were cordoned off in the hope of scoring one last huzzah with the old toad,<em> if you know what I mean<em>. However, Yaxley had the good (or bad, depending on how much you know about the outcome of the story) fortune to overhear the entire conversation between Dumbledore and Fudge, and then the other one between everybody else.

It didn't tell him much, other than that Dumbledore had a very low opinion of Fudge, which everyone knew, Ginevra Weasley moonlighted as a prostitute, which he might mention to Draco Malfoy next time he was around Malfoy Manor, Mrs Weasley was a giant prude, which he knew because he dated her once at Hogwarts and almost got castrated for trying to hold her hand, and Fudge was an idiot, which he also already knew, as he hadn't even needed the Imperius Curse to make the man do incredibly retarded things, and that Harry Potter, the Dark Lord's greatest foe, was currently out of Dumbledore's control and in the Ministry, just waiting to be grabbed by Death Eaters.

And there was some psycho in eye-rapeingly bright neon purple pyjamas wandering around, but Yaxley didn't care all that much about that. He worked with psychos every day, both inside and outside the Ministry, so it wasn't all that unusual or interesting to him.

At any rate, he went into one of the bathrooms, used the Imperius Curse to make everyone inside go away and finish their _business_ back in their offices - He really did love using that curse too much for his own good sometimes - locked himself in a stall, rolled up his left sleeve, and pressed the Dark Mark with the tip of his wand.

The snake coming out of the skull's mouth on the tattoo looked at him, its eyes reflecting irritation at having whatever it was doing interrupted so suddenly. Its mouth opened.

"Speak," it said, in Lord Voldemort's high, cold voice.

"My Lord, Harry Potter is in the Ministry of Magic, and Dumbledore has lost control of the boy," said Yaxley, holding the inside of his forearm up near his mouth so he could speak into the skull. It was rather like a telephone, except completely different. "He seems to have gone mad, if my information is correct. With a team of Death Eaters, I believe I can easily bring him to you within half an hour - and that's only because he blew up the elevators, so we'll have to waste time using the stairs to get to him."

There was a pause. Then both the snake and skull adopted an irritated 'why do I surround myself with idiots like these?' expression.

"You are going to use the stairs?" it inquired incredulously. "Are you a wizard or not, Yaxley?

"Ah... Yes, My Lord... I am a wizard," Yaxley replied, confused.

"But you are going to use the stairs."

"Well, yeah. How else are we going to get around? The elevators are broken."

The snake looked like it was going to say something else, but appeared to reconsider. "...Never mind. You will join my Death Eaters at the Floo in the Atrium. Bellatrix will be leading the attack."

"Yes, My Lord."

"If anything winds up worse than it was when it began, thanks to this raid, I will blame you, Yaxley." Voldemort 'hung up'.

"What could go wrong?" Yaxley asked the toilet as he Transfigured his Ministry robes into Death Eater ones, and a massive explosion somewhere below shook the very foundations of the Ministry itself.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong>

I'm not usually a nice person at all, but I'm going to be very nice and post the fifth chapter sooner rather than later. Actually, no. It has nothing to do with me being nice. It's because I really like how Chapter Five came out, and it's so fucking violent it'll make you boycott FFN and turn into hippies, you weak-minded piles of human waste. And you go to hell, SR2. I put a character based on you in the fifth chapter, whether you like it or not. In fact, there are several characters based on my reviewers, but they're all going to appear in the fifth chapter. And most of them are going to die. Oops. I spoiled it. Sorry.

Which reminds me: Read _Snakelike Evil_ by DreamsofPurpleRoses. She is far more creative with violence than I will ever hope to be. In fact, read all of her stories. Well, most of them. I'm not ashamed to say I don't give a shit about some. Just the ones that contain violence, torture, contempt, madness, crime, disgrace, ptomaine, KILL!

In other news, I myself have several stories that will soon be posted, if my inferius-beta ever gets off her rotten, decayed, lifeless, et cetera ass and does my bidding.

So, ah, keep your eyes... _OPEN_.

_(Beta note: her lovely arse will get to it all in time, dearest readers.)_

As always, my faithful **[A/N: disregard that, see above for evidence of mutiny aboard the HMS Mystory]** but dead beta-reader TuesdayNovember beta-read this.


	5. Ham Sandwich Portkey

_Sharing is caring... who cares... blehghrh_

**Notes from the author:**

Today I'm going to spare you from most of my garbage up here, and put it all at the bottom. But I can't resist not sparing you, either. All I'm going to say is that I looked you up in Lucius Malfoy's four hundred and twenty seven volume set of encyclopedias, and it said you're an idiot. A huge idiot.

TuesdayNovember betaed this.

I should have posted a chapter on a Tuesday in November.

* * *

><p><strong>HARRY POTTER AND THE LIFE-CHANGING HEAD INJURY<strong>

**Chapter Five: Ham Sandwich Portkey**

The explosion heard/felt by Yaxley moments earlier was Harry Potter's entry into a particular office, from which a stream of letters addressed to him had been issuing for the last fifteen minutes. Harry thought about just knocking, but decided it would be too polite, so instead he used magic to blow the door up instead, as well as a big chunk of the wall. He stepped inside, looking very imposing and badass in his leather trench coat.

"SEND ME UNDERAGE MAGIC WARNINGS, WILL YOU?" he roared at the poor sod who sat behind the desk.

Interestingly, Morris Onnic had not paid any attention to anybody or anything at all when he came in to work about fifteen minutes before Harry yelled, "SEND ME UNDERAGE MAGIC WARNINGS, WILL YOU?" This meant that he managed to ignore the enormous hole in the wall, the charred corpses, Luna's eye-raping pyjamas (she walked by the office he was in shortly before Harry arrived), the exploded Umbridge, the dead Aurors, the dying Aurors, Albert Runcorn's severed head, and countless other things that should have made any normal human being turn right around and go hit the bottle at some sleazy bar.

He was, perhaps, even stupider than Gregory Goyle, who at least had the excuse of being inbred and having been dropped on his head as a child. In fact, the only reason Morris even worked at the Ministry at all was because his father had donated a large amount of money to Fudge, and Scrimgeour's purges were moving along slowly due to the Minister spending so much of his time dealing with the stories about him having an affair with Umbridge (which, by the way, Rita Skeeter was, at that very moment, using as the basis for a headline story about how Scrimgeour's attempt at Human Transfiguration for sexually fetishistic purposes had gone horribly, horribly wrong).

Anyway, Morris was filling in for Mafalda Hopkirk that day, because she'd been hexed by her neighbour in a dispute over a pair of shoes, a tennis racket, some fake dog crap, and a roasted turkey, and was in St. Mungo's. One very interesting note about this whole affair was that Morris actually worked in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and had simply forgotten where his office was when he came in.

When he sat down in an office that sort-of resembled his own office, he found it was flooded with memos about Harry Potter using illegal Dark Magic. Because Morris was just so god damn stupid, he started feeding them through the Automated Notifier, which automatically sent out underage magic warnings when the documents were put into it. He had absolutely no idea what the hell he was doing; he only did it because the mouth of the Notifier looked a lot like a paper shredder and he wanted to get rid of all the irrelevant, misfiled memos that were cluttering his desk.

So, when Harry Potter burst into his office a short time later, having followed the trail of letters all the way from the Department of Magical Transportation, where he'd been attempting to get a Portkey to escape, and yelled, "SEND ME UNDERAGE MAGIC WARNINGS, WILL YOU?" Morris didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked. "I will not be sending anyone anything, so stop yelling at me."

That was the last thing he ever said before Harry Potter caused his head to explode using a Reductor Curse. And the world was a slightly better place without him, in the end.

Harry also blew up the office.

And all the offices around it.

Fucking Ministry people giving him undeserved warnings for illegal use of Dark Magic!

Yet another interesting tidbit: Harry Potter was the only person in the history of Britain to get a warning and not a lifetime vacation in Azkaban for using the Killing Curse. This was because all of the Wizengamot had unanimously agreed to make it legal for him to do whatever the hell he wanted immediately after the Department of Mysteries incident.

Dumbledore tried to block it, but they overrode it, and look where it got them.

Wizards.

Idiots.

One and the same.

Damn it, now he had to go all the way back to the Department of Transportation and find that ugly witch at the portkey desk. The Ministry would pay dearly for this, oh yes...

Harry blew up another office. Let them pay for that.

The single not-blown-up elevator, which Harry had come down in, contained some guy with a nose ring. Surprisingly, he managed to not get killed by Harry. He did this by ducking under the first curse Harry set at him, rolling away from the second, and then being killed instead by a piece of the ceiling that fell on his head.

When Harry stepped into the elevator and pressed the Department of Magical Transportation button about four hundred times very fast, he got a sudden feeling that there were Death Eaters in the Ministry and Voldemort was happy, or something.

The best part was that his scar didn't hurt. There was some dried blood on it, though.

With a loud _RRRACK_, the elevator doors opened again. The ugly portkey witch from earlier was gone from the main hall of the Department of Magical Transportation, but it seemed Harry's torturous... torture... of said ugly portkey witch hadn't driven everybody off. There were a couple of other confused-looking people milling around. All of them were obese and rather stupid-looking, and most of them were wearing tasteless Hawaiian-patterned tourist shirts, and one had a camera round his neck.

"Excuse me," said Harry politely, "do you know where I can find a person who's authorized to make portkeys?"

"There's a man in there!" one of the tourists said in a whiny voice, and he turned and pointed at a desk with an office behind it, his fat face quivering with every movement, "but he won't come out and give us our portkey, the bastard!"

"Thanks," Harry told him.

"Hey!" exclaimed the tourist. "You're Harry Potter! Can I get a picture with you?" He handed his camera to the man next to him and began waddling toward Harry without waiting for an answer.

Harry smiled eerily. "Of course," he said.

He'd actually been planning to just blow up the wall of the office and grab the cowardly portkey person, letting the tourists run/waddle/roll away, but he would have made a terrible Slytherin, as he couldn't stick to any plan at all. Even before his head injury.

"Smile," the other tourist said.

The fat bastard tourist, who was standing beside Harry now, put on a huge, shit-eating grin.

Harry's eerie, creepy, Don't-I-Remind-You-Of-Voldemort-And/Or-Bellatrix-Lestrange-When-I-Do-This smile remained on his face. He stepped back a little, behind the disgusting man's fat rolls, and drew his wand.

Just as the flash went off, Harry stepped back a bit more and moved to the side just a little, pointed his wand at the obese waste-of-space's enormous belly, and said: _"EXTRACTUM!"_

Amazingly, none of the other tourists ran away. They were simply too horrified by the sight of He-Who-Had-No-Self-Control-When-Eating's guts boiling out of his stomach to react in any meaningful way. It was probably because they had all led very cushy, painless lives, and had never even seen anyone die before. Plus, most of them were just plain stupid, like 96 percent of wizards and witches. So by the time any of them thought to run, Harry had already slaughtered about half of the worthless tourists.

Anyone who doesn't believe in natural selection after reading that series of events can go boil their head.

Harry picked up the camera and took a few more really artistic photos, and then pocketed it. The pictures on it were bound to be very interesting and hilarious, especially that first one. Maybe he could send it to Colin Creevey and have them developed. Colin probably wouldn't mind doing it. Colin probably wouldn't mind jumping off a 600 mile high cliff if Harry requested it of him, actually. Strange boy, he was.

Harry kicked in the door of the cowardly portkey person's office and pointed his wand at the man. "You," he said. "How much is a portkey to wherever the hell I want?"

"W-w-we d-d-don't d-d-do open p-p-portkeys," the man, who reminded Harry of Wormtail, stammered. "Th-they're illegal!"

"What if I said I'd torture you to death if you didn't," Harry inquired curiously. "What then? Is there a clause about life-threatening emergencies?"

"N-n-n-no," replied the Wormtail-like wizard.

Oh. Well, that made sense. Wizards and their laws.

"I guess I'll just have to cut off your fingers and feed them to you, then," said Harry with a sigh. He pointed his wand at the man's left hand. "_ABRUM__—_"

"WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT!"

Harry stopped. "Yeah?"

The man grabbed a random object—a half-eaten sandwich—off his desk and tapped it with his wand, which he hadn't bothered to try to defend himself with. "Here!" he said. "It'll t-t-t-take you w-w-w-wherever you want t-t-to go, but it'll only w-w-w-work once! Th-the activation phrase is 'Don't kill me!'"

"Thanks," said Harry. He took the ham sandwich, turned, and lurched in the direction of the door. "Wait, one other thing—are you related to Peter Pettigrew?"

The wizard looked surprised. "Yeah," he said. "I'm his brother, John."

"Oh, okay."

John Pettigrew breathed a sigh of relief and sat back to enjoy living another day. He was a cowardly... coward... like his brother, but it was all right because he was alive.

"I'm alive," he said joyously. "I'm alive..."

Then an overpowered _Confrigo_ spell blew his office to kingdom come. The biggest piece of John Pettigrew anyone ever found was his finger, but that was only because all of the other pieces were so small.

Anyway, Harry was out in the hallway, about to activate his ham sandwich, when something caught his attention. This was the fact that while he had been in the back room, the elevator had dinged repeatedly and a series of Aurors, Hit Wizards, Unspeakables, Death Eaters, the Order of the Phoenix, centaurs, elves, goblins, orcs, Inferi, stormtroopers, Lucius Malfoy's hairstylists, necromancers, the undead pirates from Pirates of the Caribbean, Roman legionnaires, the United States Marines, They, Them, Those, The Others, The Forgotten, It (also known as Pennywise the Dancing Clown), Freddy Kruger, Ruskbyte, TuesdayNovember, a walking watch with legs made out of spoons connected by super-sticky bubble gum, and a giant turtle the size of a bus, had all piled out into the Department of Transportation.

Also: Luna Lovegood, Albus Dumbledore, and Nymphadora Tonks were somewhere in that mess, too.

Fortunately, the majority of the groups and people that really had no place in this scene were on their way to acquire transportation to various locations/licensing documents/human flesh and souls/turtle feed, and so they just flooded around Harry and down the hall to the right. Except for Lucius's hairstylists, but it turned out they were just on the wrong floor and it was an administrative error that they were there, so they went back in the elevator and left.

This left the Aurors, the Hit Wizards, the Unspeakables, the Death Eaters, and the Order. And Luna, Dumbledore, and Tonks, the latter of whom were technically part of the Order, but _eh_. Tonks had been hit in the head by a centaur's hoof and forgotten her name, so she didn't count.

Now, these happened to be the five most powerful organizations in Britain (except for the Illuminati, but we don't talk about that). Between groups of this nature, there is always friction.

The Aurors thought the Hit Wizards were a bunch of arrogant assholes and hated them for the way they looked down on all the other law enforcement officials. The Hit Wizards actually were a bunch of arrogant assholes and looked down on all the other law enforcement officials.

The Unspeakables often clashed with the Aurors because of the laws they had to break to carry out their experiments, and with the Hit Wizards because the Hit Wizards were assholes and thought the Department of Mysteries was too mysterious and suspicious (which it was; it had secret listening spells and spies all over the Ministry that no one, even the Minister, knew about, and it was headed by a talking rock from outer space—but that's a different story, and you're not going to hear it). The Unspeakables just didn't like having their autonomy challenged by anybody, so they were hostile to just about every non-Unspeakable person ever.

As for the Order, the Aurors didn't like how they kept doing their job for them, the Hit Wizards considered them a paramilitary organization (sort of like those American nut jobs who live out in the woods with 500 guns and no toilet), and the Unspeakables were still rather sore about how Harry and his friends had blown up half their department just a short time ago.

The Death Eaters just hated everybody because they were a bundle of dicks, and everybody hated them back for it.

And there they were, all in one hallway/office/thingy about the size of an airport terminal.

Surprisingly, it was not a Death Eater who fired the first spell. The Death Eaters may have been a bundle of dicks, but they were smart dicks. They knew when they were outnumbered, so they were all backing up toward the elevator, intending to go back and blame Yaxley for everything.

Nor was it Harry. He was stuffing the ham sandwich in his pocket when it happened.

No, it was a douchebag Auror called Calvin Roberts. A Death Eater had used Muggle spray-paint to graffiti 'FUCK YOU AUROR' on the side of newly painted his house the night before, and Roberts was very pissed off about it. When he saw the team of Death Eaters backing away slowly, he thought to himself, 'If I start a huge battle in this enclosed space, I can kill random Death Eaters without getting in trouble, and eventually I'll kill the one that ruined my house and have my revenge. It's an incredibly brilliant plan.'

It was an incredibly stupid plan. For a lot of reasons. All Roberts had seen of the perpetrator was absolutely nothing; he had just assumed it was Death Eater that did the graffiti and not some random, disgruntled little punk bastard because he was a narcissist and everything to do with him had to be important and exciting. The Muggle spray-paint should have tipped him off, though. Auror Roberts had no common sense. Therefore, starting a battle of the magnitude that would break out would be a very bad idea for him, as those types of battles tended to require common sense in order for one to survive. But, again, Auror Roberts had no common sense.

This is why he chose to make the incredibly fucktarded mistake of shooting his first spell at Bellatrix Lestrange, who turned and blasted his head into little pieces and some reddish-purplish goop with a Reductor Curse not half a second later.

After that, everything blew up. One piece at a time.

For example, Harry shot some _Confrigo_ spells right at Aurors to make them blow up, showering everybody with blood and guts. Rookwood Conjured a Muggle hand grenade inside the stomach of his opponent, which also resulted in everybody getting showered with blood and guts. A random Hit Wizard Summoned and then Banished all of an Order member's internal organs, showering everybody with blood and guts, and also heroin, because the Order woman was a drug mule when she wasn't doing work for Dumbledore (and occasionally when she was). An Unspeakable Stunned a Death Eater, who then exploded for absolutely no reason at all; the Unspeakable dragged the remains off into the elevator so he could take them to the Department of Mysteries and unravel this fascinating puzzle.

Somebody Summoned the giant turtle from before, which came crashing through the hall and crushed several people. A Death Eater who had gotten his hands on a hair from 1974-era Gunnar Hansen to use in Polyjuice Potion ran around with a chainsaw, cutting people in half, while wearing a mask made of human skin over his face. A couple of Aurors went around sticking non-Aurors to the ceiling like flies, where an Acromantula Animagus feasted upon their succulent flesh.

In the smouldering hole that used to be John Pettigrew's office, Jugson the Death Eater hid behind some wreckage and lit up a blunt.

Remus Lupin, professional werewolf and friend of the late James Potter and Sirius Black, duelled Antonin Dolohov, professional Death Eater and friend of... well, he sort of kept to himself, and pretty much everybody was okay with that, because he was a bit creepy.

They fought furiously, and accidentally eviscerated a few people during said duel. Remus's amber eyes were narrowed in determination, and Dolohov's pale face was twisted into a mask of hate. It was one of those duels where one wrong move could result in a Reductor Curse to the chest or a Punctum Hex to the brain, depending on which one you were.

For a long time, they were evenly matched.

Then a (sort of) important plot point that had auditioned for DH came through a door behind Dolohov and tripped over a dead body, and he tripped over it in turn, and both he and Remus got smacked in the face by it for the insult and they had to pause their duel for a bit to sort it all out. It was a plot point that would have made Remus's fate in Deathly Hallows seem a lot less random and tacked on, and would have made for an interesting subplot, much more interesting than some of the things JK threw in there at the last moment:

Remus Lupin was responsible for catching Dolohov the first time around. Nobody ever gave Remus the reward money (Umbridge redirected it to herself, which was why she could afford all those hideous kitten plates) but he didn't do it for the reward. He did it because Dolohov was an evil man with a long, pale, twisted face who liked Indian food, and Remus couldn't stand Indian food for some reason. More importantly, he did it because Dolohov killed a lot of innocent werewolves back in the first war.

Dolohov did this because he hated werewolves. His sister was killed by one. Well, not really; he killed her. But it wasn't his fault. It was an incestuous relationship gone bad. But no, it wasn't like you're thinking... She was the one who was trying to get in his pants. He just wanted her to go away. It was hard to pick up women when she followed him to bars and told people she was his girlfriend. So one night he got sick of her cockblocking him and killed her.

Then Dumbledore changed his memories so that he thought werewolves did it, and also so that he thought he didn't find his sister annoying. This was part of some grand scheme of the Headbastard's to turn the werewolves away from Voldemort by making them hate him and his followers because they killed so many werewolves. Spoiler: It didn't work because Dolohov killed all the ones that turned away.

Oops.

The moral of this story is that Dumbledore should have learned to keep his weapons under better control by the time 1996 rolled around, but he did not, because there were no NRA training courses in Britain.

Anyway, while Remus and Dolohov and the plot point had a three-way (duel), Luna Lovegood wandered around in her eye-raping purple pyjamas, mostly oblivious to the fighting, while Dumbledore looked for her so he could Apparate her away and brainwash her into becoming a tool in his campaign to turn Neville into the new Chosen One. Unfortunately, just when Dumbledore found her, someone else did something to turn a large part of the hall the same colour as her pyjamas, and she became a floating head, which was extremely difficult to follow.

Inevitably, Luna bumped into somebody.

"Oops," she said. "Excuse me."

The somebody happened to be Harry Potter, who pointed his wand at her and started, _"CARIOS_—_"_ which was all but one syllable of the incantation for the Flesh-Rotting Curse. Had Harry finished the incantation, the spell would have most likely caused Luna's face to rot off, and she most likely wouldn't have cared all that much, but fortunately he stopped when he noticed that the person who had walked into him was not, in fact, an amazingly stupid or unlucky Auror, but his insane friend Luna Lovegood.

"It's all right," he said, because even after his head injury he still liked his friends. "How are you, Luna?"

Luna smiled dreamily at him. "I'm tnellecxe," she told him as a Killing Curse rocketed past her head, missing her by about half an inch.

"That's very nice to hear. Would you like to come blow people up with me?" offered Harry. It was always nice to share fun with friends.

"Humm..."

Luna took on a thoughtful expression and shifted her weight a bit, and a jinx missed her and hit Travers instead. Travers sprouted nipples from his eyeballs. The giant turtle made a roaring sound because somebody had accidentally _Crucio__ed_ it, and it started stomping on people. A blood-curdling scream issued from a man who had just been turned inside-out by Bellatrix Lestrange.

After about a minute of tapping her finger against her head and frowning, Luna's smile came back. "Okay!" she squealed, and she reached into her eye-raping neon-purple pyjamas and pulled out her wand. "_Reducto!"_ she sang, like it was Christmas and she was out carolling. An Unspeakable exploded in a shower of unspeakable gore.

"Try to aim for their heads," Harry suggested, sending a silent Organ Burster Hex at Marcus Flint. It missed and hit Dorcas Meadowes instead. Oops. "Sometimes they lurch around for a bit if you get rid of everything but the brain stem."

"Ooh, that sounds morbidly fascinating. I want to see it. _Reducto!"_

Her spell incapacitated a Hit Wizard who was about to cast the Killing Curse on Tonks (because Hit Wizards were allowed to use the Killing Curse, thanks to Barty Crouch, Sr.'s legislation that nobody had ever reversed because my god would you want to get rid of a law that says you can kill whoever you want whenever you want? You probably would, you loser. I wouldn't. That's why I would be a Hit Wizard or a Death Eater, and you would hide behind a lemon drop addict), whose luck, while improving, still sucked because the moment the Hit Wizard fell, she was hit over the head again and staggered right into her aunt Bellatrix.

Bellatrix screeched and went to curse her, but unfortunately, she had also inherited the same curse of clumsiness as Tonks. It was just that nobody ever talked about it, because she would _Crucio_ them into insanity if they did. Anyway, she slipped on some blood and fell, and got her nose broken. It wasn't from the fall, though. It was because Remus Lupin happened to step on her face without realizing who he was stepping on. Revenge is sweet, even if it's unintentional.

Anyway, Dumbledore finally located Luna Lovegood. He watched her shoot a spell at a Death Eater and miss.

_'Ah, how quaint,'_ he thought. _'She is trying to fight the Dark without my infallible assistance.'_

About two seconds later, he sailed through the air like a flying fish, intending to grab her so he could bring her to Number Twelve, et cetera. Luna stepped out of the way and he landed on his face.

"Hello, Professor Dumbledore!" said the insane girl, and she waved at him even though he was face down on the floor. "Now is as good a time as any to say you should beware of Wrackspurts!"

She then turned around and Conjured a Wrackspurt, which went into the ear of a nearby Auror and began munching on his brain. Dumbledore didn't see this because he was still face down on the floor; his long, phallic nose had gotten stuck in a hole someone had burned with acid a minute earlier.

"Can you make a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?" asked Harry curiously.

Luna looked depressed. "No," she said sadly. Then she brightened. "But I know a spell that shoots Erumpet horns!" She jabbed her wand at a random spot in the hall and opened her mouth.

At that moment, Dumbledore freed his nose from the acid hole in the floor, seized her by the ankle, and Disapparated.

"Motherfucker," said Harry petulantly. "I wanted to see that." Then he got a bright idea. He took the ham sandwich out of his pocket and tapped it with his wand. "Take me wherever the hell Dumbledore took Luna Lovegood," he demanded.

Nothing happened.

"Oh, yeah. _Don't kill me._"

Then, just as Avery threw an overpowered Slicing Curse at Harry, he disappeared, pulled into the sky by his awesome ham sandwich portkey. Avery's spell hit Mulciber instead; Mulciber turned to look at it just in time to paste a very surprised expression on his face, and then the curse sheared through the right side of his face, blasting blood, skin, brains, hair, bone, and a little bit of white that used to be his eye all over Charlie Weasley, who had been duelling him not a second and a half ago.

* * *

><p>"...and she keeps talking about making me wear a chastity belt..." Ginny went on. She was sitting on one of the eighteen sofas in Blaise's drawing room, while Blaise reclined on another.<p>

Blaise nodded understandingly, because he did in fact understand. He had heard of Mrs Weasley's madness before tonight (from Draco, mostly, but also a little bit from the _Daily Prophet_).

Ginny had gone from frantically explaining her predicament and the fact that she wasn't some random hussy trying to seduce him so she could have his baby and get a shitload of money for it (after which Blaise Transfigured a pillow into a pair of trousers for her, for which she was grateful) to ranting about her mother's prudishness to him once she got a bit more comfortable sitting in his awesome Hugh Hefner playboy mansion.

"...I have no idea what I'm going to do!" the redhead exclaimed suddenly, in a voice that one might use just before saying one was going to commit suicide. "Why can't she castrate Ron instead? Ron will never reproduce anyway!"

"I agree," said Blaise seriously. "Weasley—your brother, that is—has no chance of ever getting laid." He paused thoughtfully. "You could always get married."

"What?" Ginny looked at him like he'd sprouted Ron's head from his groin and started talking about having an orgy with the Chudley Cannons.

"You could always get married," Blaise repeated. "It would legally emancipate you. Your mother wouldn't be able to force you to wear a chastity belt then."

"I'm fifteen! There are a million reasons why that wouldn't work!"

He shrugged. "I did it," he said. "It stopped my mother from trying to kill me all the time."

"Who did you—Wait, your mother tried to kill you all the time?" said Ginny. Now she looked like he'd also sprouted Harry's head and started talking about... whatever Harry talked about before his life-changing head injury, because up until his life-changing head injury occurred, Harry only thought about what Dumbledore wanted him to think about because he was a human shotgun/puppet/thing.

"Yeah." Blaise shrugged again, thoroughly indifferent. "She does it to everyone she comes in close contact with. It got kind of repetitive after a while, and I needed to make her stop before I went crazy from the sheer boredom of having to buy new house-elves all the time because they all died taste-testing my drinks for poison."

"Ooookay... And how did that stop her from killing you?" Ginny asked slowly.

"Well, I moved out and now I live in a different part of the manor," replied Blaise. "This is my half, and that's her half_—_" He pointed somewhere over Ginny's head. "About two miles that way, I mean. She stays on her side, and I stay on mine, and everyone's happy because I don't have to waste my time watching my house elves froth at the mouth and die."

"Your house is two miles long..."

He shook his head. "No, it's fifteen miles, but we don't use most of it."

Ginny sighed in disbelief. "I think Ron would turn gay for you," she said. "Just for the money."

Blaise made a horrible gagging sound.

Quickly, she added: "But I don't think he'd ever marry a Slytherin, even for a fifteen-mile-long house."

"Good. I'd never marry him, either, because he's a very stupid Ginger blood traitor Chudley Cannons-humping orangutan child. Besides, Theo would kill him."

Ignoring the blood traitor slight, since all the rest of what Blaise said was correct (Ron was the only member of the Weasley family who actually suffered from true gingervitis; the rest were just cursed with Ginger-like traits. Also, the Twins claimed to have discovered repressed memories of their parents rescuing Ron from an orangutan cage at a Muggle zoo), Ginny asked, "Why would Theo—Nott, right?—kill him? Besides the obvious stupid ginger blood traitor etc. part."

Once again, Blaise shrugged. "He's my husband-thing," he told her. "He's very possessive."

"He's not going to come in here and kill me thinking I'm trying to seduce you, is he?"

"Nah. He's, uh, out." Blaise surreptitiously turned down a framed photograph of himself and Theo torturing Muggles together. Romantically. "Doing... stuff."

"Oh, well, that's good," said Ginny obliviously.

"Listen, you have any idea who you'd marry?" the dark-skinned boy inquired.

"Well, uh, I don't know. Everyone I know is a giant douchebag when it comes to romance," Ginny replied, giving him a helpless look.

"That's okay," Blaise told her. "Everyone I know is a douchebag, too. But here's some advice: if you really want to get back at your mother for all the years of abuse you've suffered at her prudish hands, join a harem."

"What? That's barbaric!"

"Yeah, that's kind of the point," said Blaise. "No, wait," he amended after a moment. "The point is sex. It's all about sex. All day every day."

She nodded slowly. "And she hates sex," she said.

"Exactly."

"Nobody I know has a harem, though," said Ginny, deflating a bit.

Blaise waved a hand dismissively. "That's okay. I know some people."

"Like who?" asked the redhead.

"Draco Malfoy wants to start one."

Ginny looked at him like Draco Malfoy had just exploded out of his groin and started threatening to tell his father if someone didn't give him a Cauldron Cake covered with Dementor excrement.

"Yeah, I didn't think so," said Blaise. "That's exactly how the Slytherin girls reacted when he announced it in the common room. Except Bletchley." He frowned just a little, then smiled a bit, then smirked a lot. "Bletchley tried to hit him with a Castration Hex for the mere suggestion that she would ever join his harem."

"I hope somebody else tries again and succeeds," Ginny told him. "Anybody else?"

"Daphne Greengrass," Blaise suggested with another shrug. "She already got Davis and Bones to join hers."

"Isn't she supposed to be really cold and contemptuous, or something?" asked Ginny.

Now it was Blaise's turn to give her a disturbed look: he looked at her like Snape's greasy hook-nosed head had come out of her vagina and started taking points for being in the same genus and species as Harry Potter.

"No," he said. "She's probably the most approachable Slytherin in our year, except Davis. Who the hell told you she was aloof and cold and all that?"

"Ron did," said Ginny. "Except he didn't use words like 'aloof' and 'contemptuous' because he's so stupid he dropped out of the last year of primary sch... Oh. I see," she finished, realizing her mistake. Looking for a distraction from the embarrassment of having believed something Ron said without obtaining empirical evidence for herself, she asked, "Who's Davis?"

"Tracey Davis? You've never seen her?"

Ginny shook her head.

"Brunette, bookish, really short, has glasses so big you could put Galleons through them..."

"Ohhhh... So that's who that is," Ginny exclaimed. "Somebody told me she was a ghost."

"And who told you that?" inquired Blaise smugly, knowing the answer.

"Ro... Oh. Damn it..." She resolved to punch Ron in the head for embarrassing her the next time she saw him. "So, if I join Daphne Greengrass's harem, I won't have to put up with my mother anymore, I won't have to smell Ron's room every time I walk past it, and I can still pursue Harry Potter on my own time, right?"

"Sure," said Blaise. "I suppose. You'll have to work that last one out with her. It's not my harem."

Ginny thought about it for a while.

On one hand, she had been in love with Harry Potter since she was a small child. Mostly, that was because her mother had told her a lot of stories about him killing potential rapists in extremely violent and disturbing ways, but still. One of the themes of the stories that weren't completely made-up morality tales of her mother's was that [nonsexual] love conquers all things except for chastity belts. So that meant she should weather through her mother's crap for the next few years and keep trying to get Harry Potter as a husband so she could finally escape the evil prude, sort of like the princess waiting in the tower for the knight to rescue her from the evil [potential rapist] dragon, or something.

On the other hand, love didn't really seem to be doing all that much for her right now. In fact, it had gotten her dragged half-naked into the middle of the Ministry of Magic. If love was such a powerful force, why hadn't it spontaneously burnt her mother to a crisp years ago? Dumbledore encouraged her to pursue Harry whenever he came to visit the Burrow, but he never just took out his wand and said 'hokus pokus deletus prudishnessus' while pointing it at Mrs Weasley.

The other option was marrying some girl she had barely even met, but who was a definite improvement over her life at home. There was a good chance she wouldn't be able to marry Harry Potter, but at this point, Harry Potter was not worth being dragged half-naked into the Ministry of Magic by her psychotic mother to meet Dumbledore and Fudge. Despite not having lesbian orgies with Luna, Ginny wasn't really that picky. Well, she wasn't picky at all because her mother kept casting charms on her to detect whether she'd had sex with anyone and threatening to do various horrible things if she had, so she didn't dare go that far with anyone. But if she did, she wouldn't have been picky about their gender.

So basically, the question boiled down to: stay at home and wear a chastity belt for the rest of her life, or join Daphne Greengrass's harem and have mind-melting lesbian sex with three or more stunningly beautiful other girls every day until she went completely insane from all the constant orgasms and had to join the Longbottoms and Lockhart in the Janus Thickley Ward.

"What's Daphne's Floo address?" she asked Blaise.

* * *

><p>Dumbledore <em>finally<em> reappeared in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place with Luna in tow. He was so focused on abducting the girl that he failed to notice she had begun singing a song about exploding people's heads while he dragged her through the sitting room. Not that he would have noticed anyway; Dumbledore had a kind of gating mechanism for the importance of other people, and Luna's oddities just didn't register with him most of the time, because she was a small blonde girl in eye-raping purple pyjamas and not a heroic roaring lionish Gryffindor hero of heroism.

Anyway, he deposited Luna in the kitchen, stuck her to a chair, and went to go make sure no one was around to listen to him brainwash her into obeying his every command via a combination of curses, potions, and psychological abuse. When he came back, she had unstuck herself from the chair and was playing with the extremely sharp kitchen knives.

"Ms Lovegood, you should not be near sharp objects," said Dumbledore wearily. "There is a very strong possibility that you will hurt yourself."

"Is there?" Luna asked as something thumped loudly upstairs. Dumbledore assumed it was Kreacher, because he had just checked for people, and he was never, ever wrong. "But they like me so much, and want to play with me."

"You are completely insane," the Headmaster informed her. "Please come here so that I can make you sane." Because doing what he said meant one was sane. They were exactly the same thing.

Luna struck a pose that made it seem as if she were very deep in thought. She tapped one of the kitchen knives against the side of her head with a disturbingly loud _bap_ sound until her scalp started bleeding a little. "...No," she finally decided. "I don't think I'm going to do that. It doesn't sound very fun."

Now, Dumbledore had just spent a lot of time making himself miserable in order to find this girl and bring her back, so he wasn't about to just let her run off again without something to show for it.

"You will come here right now," he said imperiously, "or I will do the very worst things you can imagine."

"You wouldn't hurt the Crumple Horned Snorkack!" gasped Luna. "It never did anything to you!"

"I will hurt it very badly unless you come here."

"All right," Luna agreed at last. She came out from behind the counter. With the kitchen knife.

In the next three seconds, there was a lot of very fast movement, some diving, some ducking and rolling, some screaming, and some other miscellaneous things as well. In the end, Luna skipped out through the doorway, singing merrily to herself, while Dumbledore howled with pain and tried to pull the kitchen knife out of his foot.

"Hi Luna," said Harry as he came down the stairs into the landing between the hallway and the kitchen. He watched Luna trip over the strategically placed troll's leg umbrella stand, perform a magnificent cartwheel, and land on her feet as though nothing had happened.

"Hello, Harry Potter!" she exclaimed, skipping round in a circle to avoid smacking into the front door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. "How ever did you follow Professor Dumbledore when he meanly abducted me?"

"I used the power of ham sandwiches," Harry told her. "They know everything."

She stopped in front of him and nodded seriously. "They do," she said. "Daddy used a ham sandwich to find me once when I got lost in the woods."

"Your father is a very wise man."

"Yes he is," Luna said. She nodded very enthusiastically, so much that her hair became mussed up and got in her eyes. "He's the world's leading expert on Ravenclaw's lost diadem, the Blibbering Humdinger, and Crumple-Horned Snorkacks."

"I wonder if a ham sandwich could find a Crumple-Horned Snorkack," Harry mused.

Luna's eyes lit up joyfully and she jumped up and down a few times, clapping her hands together like a delighted child. "That's an excellent idea! I shall mention it to Daddy when I see him next."

"This conversation about ham sandwiches is making me hungry. After all, I haven't eaten in three days, what with the Dursleys starving me before I murdered them," said Harry, looking at the kitchen door. "Would you like something to eat, Luna?"

"Oh yes, please," the blonde girl agreed. "I would like cookies and milk."

Harry walked over to the kitchen, with Luna moonwalking along behind him, and pushed the door open. The floor of the kitchen was covered with blood, and there was an equally bloody knife on the table (which Luna immediately ran to and cradled in her arms, telling it she was sorry for leaving it alone with the Crumple-Horned Snorkack-threatener).

"I thought Dumbledore was with you." Harry scratched his head cluelessly, looking around. The old man was nowhere to be found. "Maybe he's invisible and I should start blowing things up at random in the hope of hitting him."

"Mmm, well, I did stab his foot rather severely," Luna put in thoughtfully. "He might have gone away to fix it while we were talking about ham sandwiches."

"That could be it. Why question good fortune, anyway..."

Two minutes later, Harry was in a chair at the table, eating a delicious pulled pork sandwich, and Luna was on the table itself, cross-legged, nibbling on a sugar cookie. Harry was covered in blood, guts, and other miscellaneous gore, and Luna's eye-raping neon purple pyjamas were stained with the lifeblood of the most powerful (or so he liked to think) wizard of the age. The bloody kitchen knife was impaled into the table beside Luna, along with all of its shiny, as-yet unstained friends.

And that was how Ron Weasley, nonprofessional idiot (he was too oblivious to realize idiots could get paid to be idiots; these jobs were also known as Ministry internships) found the two of them.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong>

Originally, there was something incredibly offensive right here in this spot, but I got rid of it because I realized I have no spine. But that was already evident, wasn't it? The fact that I continue to let you idiots dictate my writing schedule is offensive in itself. You're offensive. This story is offensive. The fact that it exists is offensive. Your smell is offensive to my nostrils. Offensively offensive offense offended the offendable (which is not recognized as a word... but fuck you, Firefox) Offend-o-tron (fuck you again) 5000.

Anyway.

The Greengrass thing is a joke about HP harem fics, but you probably knew that. When was the last time you read about a female character starting a harem? Or, for that matter, when's the last time you read about a slash harem? So, ladies, gentlemen, and douchebags, I present to you (a ways above), the femslash harem.

About Bletchley being female: that's actually semi-canon. Miles Bletchley was a girl in the _CoS _movie, according to some basement-dwellers with enough time on their hands that they created an entire wiki for Harry Potter, despite there being about 50 already. There's also a girl with glasses in the _PS_ movie that some people think was supposed to be Tracey Davis.

The ham sandwich portkey thing isn't an in-joke I put in or anything. It's literally just the first thing that came into mind when I thought about what he could use for an improvised portkey.

There was more offensive stuff down here, but I took it out, too, before anybody got offended and stopped reading. I like reviews more than offense because I'm a corporate CEO at heart. You must praise me, for I am also a narcissist and will shrivel up and die if people don't constantly tell me how great I am.

[TuesdayNovember is an awesome beta, so she must get praise in your reviews as well.]


	6. Substandard Fortune Cookies

_x_

**NOTES:** Well, that was an unexpected delay. I had a whole lot of IRL crap that took precedence over my writing, and this ended up getting shoved to the back while I edited _Friends_ and whatnot. Very sorry for making you all wait, and I hope this makes up for it. Chapter 7 is already half-finished, since it contains two scenes I wrote in this chapter and then removed later on.

* * *

><p><strong>Harry Potter and the Life Changing Head Injury<strong>

**Chapter Six: Substandard Fortune Cookies**

* * *

><p>"Hello, Ronald," said Luna in a cheerful, sing-song voice to the redhead in the doorway. "You're welcome to sit down and join us if you wish."<p>

"Wha-what are you doing here?" Ron gaped at the two of them.

"Hi Ron," Harry added, equally as cheerful. "I found her using a ham sandwich. I think I'm going to hang out with her a lot more from now on, because she's a lot more awesome than everybody else I've ever hung out with." This made Luna beam with delight.

"But - but - where's Ginny?"

"Ginevra went to... um..." For the first time, Luna actually thought about where her friend had gone, and she suddenly felt terrible for forgetting her. Ginevra could be in trouble, and Luna wasn't there to make brainstem zombies out of whoever was putting her in mortal peril. "Oh, no! I've lost Ginevra! I'm a bad friend!" She burst into tears.

Harry reached over and patted her on the shoulder. "It's okay, Luna," he said. "Ginny can take care of herself. We'll see her later, and she'll be fine."

"Promise?" Luna sniffled.

"I promise," Harry assured her.

"You lost my sister?" Ron's entire face started to turn red, a sure sign of an imminent explosion.

"Ron, don't remind her," said Harry when Luna sniffled again. He suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree. "We can always use the ham sandwich to find Ginny."

Luna then did a complete turnaround and started grinning manically again. "Okay!" she squealed.

"What the fuck..." said Ron. "Wait a minute..." He took out his wand and pointed it at Harry. "You're the enemy now!"

"Am I?" Harry blinked a few times.

"Ooh, are we playing a game?" asked Luna.

"You kidnapped my sister and Loony!" Ron shouted. "And you're possessed by You-Know-Who!"

"Am I?" Harry repeated cluelessly.

Just then, Charlie Weasley twitched into the doorway, attracted by all the noise. He had gone home to check on Ginny, discovered her missing, and immediately assumed it was Harry who did it because he was so hopped up on amphetamines that he couldn't think straight (and because it actually was sort of the logical conclusion, when you think about it). After breaking down Ron's door and discovering him masturbating, which was quite horrible to behold indeed, Charlie took his younger brother to Number Twelve to keep him safe from Harry's clutches. So when he discovered that Harry and Luna were sitting in the kitchen, covered in blood (which he assumed was Ginny's) talking to his mentally retarded brother, he went for his wand to curse them, but was disarmed by the seizure he subsequently experienced due to all the excitement.

While Charlie convulsed on the floor, Ron continued to yell, too busy ranting about his family getting hurt to care about his brother's grand mal seizure.

"...I bet you two were in this together from the start, weren't you! You lured my little sister out into Merlin knows where and slaughtered her! How could you do this, Harry! I'm your best friend! Haven't you ever thought about _me?_ Famous Harry Potter, getting everything he wants, blah blah blah, ooh, I'm Harry Potter, I can have any girl I want but I go on tea shop dates and don't share with my best friend..."

To say Ron was jealous was an understatement. That his rant about his sister having been murdered degenerated into a rant about how Harry had more cool stuff than him as quickly as it did highlighted this fact. In fact, he was secretly happy Harry had killed his sister because it meant that he had a chance to put himself in the spotlight and get sympathy.

Then he got an even better idea. He would capture Harry and hand him over to Dumbledore, and everyone would remember _him_ as the Chosen One instead. Maybe Dumbledore would give him Loony as well as Hermione as a sex slave for it. Ron didn't really find the blonde girl attractive, but that wasn't the point. He just wanted to get back at her for annoying him with all her babble about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and Nargles and Wrackspurts and Triple-Dorsaled Threefs and Mignas Pears.

Maybe he could sell her to Malfoy and use the money to buy a new broomstick. Yeah. Maybe he could afford some new Quidditch balls, too. Big heavy balls. And he would caress his broomstick and balls lovingly each day while crying out the Chudley Cannons' official theme song.

The smile that lit up Ron's face was as perverse as it was retarded.

Harry and Luna were completely oblivious to this train wreck of thought. Instead, they were wondering why Ron was grinning like a retarded orangutan while spouting hateful vitriol about Harry (Harry didn't mind. He knew people needed to vent sometimes). By then, Ron was just listing things Harry had that he didn't, without putting them in any real order.

"...getting entered into the Triwizard Tournament, WHEN I SHOULD HAVE BEEN CHAMPION, having billions and billions of Galleons, seeing Hermione's boob that one time, having the best bed in the dormitory when I get one that's harder than a rock, getting a cool sword that kills basilisks, getting better food than me, faking abuse to get sympathy, sitting at tables with Loony, killing my sister with Loony, being crazy with Loony... Why don't you ever hang out with anyone cool! I want to rise through the social ranks! Make some cool friends! Hang out with Chang again! Merlin, I'll be stuck at the bottom forever!"

He started sobbing as he thought of all the things he could have had if he were rich and famous and popular, both which Harry was, and was squandering. "I hate you both! I hope you die!"

"Harry, I think Ronald has a Wrackspurt in his ear," Luna exclaimed suddenly. Her eyes widened considerably. "Based on the angle of his stupid-smile, I would say it's the exceptionally rare Romanian Wrackspurt!"

Harry squinted. "I think you're right," he said.

"What the fuck are you loons talking about?" Ron demanded.

Luna seized one of the knives and pulled it free of the table, her eyes gleaming fanatically.

"I must obtain a brain matter sample and show it to Daddy!" she cried.

"OH, SHIT!" Ron screamed as a manically grinning Luna bounced across the table toward him. He turned and ran for his life, stepping on Charlie's face after only about, oh, one step.

"Come back, Ronald!" Luna called joyfully after him, also stepping on Charlie with her bare feet (both of them) when she jumped off the table and landed on the floor. "Don't you want to further mankind's understanding of Wrackspurt physiology?"

Ron scrabbled up the stairs. "NO!" he shrieked. "NO I DON'T! GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU PSYCHO FREAK!"

"It's not good to leave a Wrackspurt in for too long, Ron!" shouted Harry, who was gathering up the rest of the knives and putting them in his pockets. "It might damage your brain even more! As much as I endorse head injuries, I'm not a fan of Wrackspurt brain damage!"

"You're both fucking crazy!" Ron ducked into one of the many bedrooms in Number Twelve's guest wing and slammed the door. About five seconds later, he turned around, screamed like a little girl, opened the door, and rushed out again, leaving Kreacher to masturbate on his photograph of Walburga in peace.

Luna skipped up the hallway, humming happily, her wand behind her ear and the kitchen knife swinging loosely from her left hand. Tonight was very exciting indeed. Romanian Wrackspurts were very rare and her father would be ever so pleased that she found a sample from a live one, even if it _was_ living in someone of less-than-average intelligence. Come to think of it, Romanian Wrackspurts seemed to prefer infesting idiots. Hmm. That was something she ought to mention to her father.

"Hum hum hum, taking brain samples, hum hum hum, cutting out brain slices, hum hum hum, lobotomizing Ronald Weasley, hum dee dum dee lumbadum dum..."

Her arrhythmic song was creepy enough to make Ron scream and run out from the room he was hiding in. Luna gave chase, still skipping, but now holding the knife up in the air and laughing merrily.

"Isn't this fun?" she giggled.

"NO! NO! THIS IS NOT FUN! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!" Ron howled.

"Because you're my friend, silly," said Luna as she cornered him at the end of the hallway. "Wrackspurts are very, very bad for your brain, especially if you're already an idiot."

Ron proceeded to bowl her over (all she said was 'ouch') and dive into the nearest room while she got up. The door slammed shut right in her face (_crunch_, 'ouch') and locked about two seconds before Harry caught up with Luna.

"Hello, Harry," Luna greeted as she got up for the second time, grinning at him through the river of blood flowing from her broken nose. "Id's dice to see you agaid."

"You too," said Harry. "Do you want me to fix that?"

"Id a bid," replied Luna happily. "I'b neber had by dose broked before. Id's kinda fud."

"That was very mean of Ron to break your nose. We should punish him."

Luna shivered, looking mildly repulsed. "I prefer to keeb Rodald oud of by bedroob fadtasies, dank you."

"Hmm, yeah, I know. He was in a dream with me and Hermione and Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott and that sixth year Hufflepuff girl who looks like she's about twenty and a couple of Veela in Auror uniforms once, and he ruined the whole thing. I threw up for hours afterward. But I've got an idea."

Ten minutes, some Conjuration, and a _Colloportus_ later, Harry and Luna strolled back out of the guest wing of Number Twelve, arm-in-arm, and into the drawing room. Ronald Billius Weasley's screams echoed through the house.

"Where shall we go, my lovely lady?" asked Harry.

Luna, most of whose face was still hidden by a mask of dried blood, thought for a moment. Then she let out another one of her excited squeals, clapped her hands together, and said, "Daddy will be very sad that I didn't get that sample of Ronald Weasley's defective brain. I'm sure it'd cheer him up a lot if he got to meet Harry Potter! We can go to my house and you can stay there, and then in the morning we can go make brainstem zombies!"

"Hmmm..." Harry stroked a nonexistent beard. "That sounds like a good idea," he said after a while. "I think it might actually _be_ a good idea, despite having only heard it. I think I'll try it."

"Yay!" Grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantle, Luna lit a fire, dragged Harry in (almost forgetting to change it to non-burny fire first) and cried, "The Rookery!".

* * *

><p>When the exhausted members of the Order of the Phoenix returned several hours later, they found Charlie Weasley unconscious on the floor in the hallway with a shoeprint on his groin, feet-shaped bruises on his stomach, and vomit all over his face. After transferring him to St. Mungo's, they started searching the house for the Death Eaters that had attacked Charlie.<p>

It was Mad-Eye Moody who heard the sobbing from the guest wing. He led Emmeline Vance and Elphias Doge to the room it was coming from and carefully unlocked the door with his master key (which was given to him by Dumbledore, who had secretly stolen it from Sirius).

Inside, they found Ron Weasley twitching atop the bed, muttering something about getting Potter and Loony. There were little spiders climbing about on the floor, piled up so high you couldn't go anywhere without being up to your ankles in them.

* * *

><p>Floo travel was unpleasant for Harry even after his head injury. However, this time, when he was violently expelled from the fireplace, he managed to go into a kind of roll and avoid landing on his face. His face hit the wall instead, since the Lovegoods' fireplace was randomly located in the middle of a hallway. Luna also smacked into the wall because she still had her arm linked with Harry's when they came out.<p>

"Sorry about that," Harry said apologetically as he helped Luna up. "The Floo doesn't like me very much."

Luna smiled. "It's quite all right. Tripping and crashing into objects is often a very enjoyable experience."

"I guess it can be," said Harry, "but I think it's always better to ask permission first, if possible."

"Hmm, I suppose you're right," Luna agreed after a moment of rocking back and forth on her feet and chewing her thumbnail thoughtfully. "Still, sometimes spontaneous activities can be as welcome as planned ones."

Harry nodded. "Life would be very boring if we always knew what was going to happen next," he said.

"That's what the Fiddlarks always say, and they're very wise."

They went down the oddly-proportioned hallway (it got wider as it got taller), until they reached a door.

"Daddy, I've returned," Luna announced. "I've brought a guest!"

"A guest?" There was a crash, and Luna looked briefly concerned; it sounded like Xenophilius had tripped over something on his way out of his office. He appeared in the hallway a moment later, brushing something powdery and red off himself. "Luna, what have I told you about bringing strange people home without checking their credentials first?"

Luna reached over and pushed back Harry's hair so that his scar was visible. She pointed at it with her other hand.

"Credential," she said.

"I see," said Xenophilius, nodding. "I'm honored to have you in my home, Harry Potter. Your story is still being reprinted; it was the most popular issue of the _Quibbler_ to date."

Harry gave him a thumbs-up. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Lovegood."

"Please, call me Xeno."

Luna's father was completely unfazed by the fact that his daughter was covered with blood and wearing pyjamas, and also that her guest was equally bloodstained and had a lot of knives sticking out of his pockets. In fact, he seemed to like Harry quite a bit, once it became clear that Luna was already good friends with him. Though he was disappointed that Luna was unable to cut out a slice of Ron's brain to study, he was thrilled with the idea of finding a Crumple-Horned Snorkack using a ham sandwich, and after pointing out the piece of someone's liver that was stuck to Harry's trench coat, he went to the store to buy ham.

Xeno Lovegood, Harry decided, was extremely cool.

After Luna had changed out of her bloodstained pyjamas and into something equally eye-raping, but multicoloured, she took Harry into the sitting room.

The Lovegoods' sitting room was small and cozy, and was exactly the sort of room one might expect a completely insane person like Luna Lovegood to sit and read books in from time to time. For one thing, each piece of furniture was upholstered half in one design in half in another. The whole room was overflowing with completely random odds and ends, including a pink stuffed badger in a birdcage, a pincushion the size of a pumpkin, and a nonmoving portrait with the head punched out, presumably so Luna and/or her father could be the portrait's face instead. There was a chair stuck upside-down to the ceiling in one corner.

Also, everything in the sitting room (including Harry and Luna) had a very noticeable sepia tint, to the point of looking like an old photograph. There was a window, and there were some curtains, but the curtains were hanging next to the window instead of in front of it. The ceiling had a skylight, but there was another ceiling behind the glass.

"This is the coolest place I have ever been in," Harry announced as Luna flopped onto the plaid end of the sofa. Both of them were still covered with blood, although Luna's father had insisted on fixing her nose before he left.

"It's actually rather warm," said Luna.

"Hmm, I guess you're right," said Harry, and he sat down on the polka-dot end of the sofa. "Do you know where I could find a Thestral, Luna?"

Luna shook her head.

"No, I'm afraid not. They find you, you see, sort of like how death finds people even when they hide from it in towers and behind walls and inside crates that used to contain oranges. Why?"

"I want to go blow up some people I don't like tomorrow," Harry explained. "It would be much easier to find them with a Thestral than without."

"Ooh, may I join you?" asked Luna excitedly. "I want to make brainstem zombies!" She made her already enormous eyes about twice as big as they usually were and stuck her bottom lip out. "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaaassssse?"

"Okay," said Harry. Cheering, Luna threw her arms around him and almost knocked him off the sofa.

"Thaaaank yoooouuu!" she sang joyously.

"Verily, we shall stay here tonight and blow up a bunch of people -"

"-and make brainstem zombies-"

"-tomorrow," declared Harry. Luna nodded enthusiastically, and then yawned.

"I think I shall take a nap, as it's -" She pushed up her eye-raping sleeve and looked at her bare wrist, "-time for me to take a nap."

"I think I shall join you in taking a nap," Harry agreed. "I haven't slept since I last slept."

Luna detached herself from Harry and stretched out in his lap, because it was very comfortable there, and used the leather trench coat as a blanket. Harry closed his eyes, and soon they were both fast asleep, dreaming of things only completely insane people would possibly dream of.

Fiddlarks, and such.

* * *

><p>Albus PWB Dumbledore cursed loudly. Where the hell was Fawkes when he needed the phoenix? Damn it. He had a hole in his foot thanks to Lovegood. That was certainly worthy of Phoenix Tears. But <em>noooo<em>_._ Fawkes was off mating, or masturbating, or something equally weird and disgusting.

The greatest wizard in history, bested by a psychotic fifteen-year-old girl who talked to knives. How embarrassing.

Knowing he would be the laughingstock of Britain if this were to get out, Dumbledore contacted the one man he knew he could trust to fix his foot and not tell anybody, because if he did he would reciprocally tell the world just what went on inside that greasy head of his (which he'd been inside a few times – horrible, horrible experiences, those were).

_"WHAT!"_ Snape screamed when Dumbledore stuck his head through the fireplace. _"WHAT DO YOU WANT!"_

Snape was standing behind his desk. His trousers were down around his ankles and he was in the middle of masturbating on a photograph of a woman with red hair. There was an open, half-empty jar of dead cockroaches next to the photograph, though why it was there was a very disturbing mystery indeed. Dumbledore's eyes remained fixed on his Potions professor's mangled penis (Snape had, sadly, been the victim of a miscast Castration Hex performed by Lily Potter toward the end of the war) for a while, and then he snapped out of his reverie and remembered what he had come for.

"Severus, do you think that you could fix this massive hole in my foot?" he asked mildly.

"Fix it yourself!" shouted Snape. "I'm busy!"

"I won't let you have Lily's corpse tonight if you don't fix my foot, Severus."

"Bleaugh."

The greasy, ugly, sallow, hooked-nosed, _extremely_ sick man reluctantly pulled up his trousers, stormed over to the Floo, and came through it, nearly stepping on Dumbledore's long, straight-as-he-was nose (on purpose).

"What happened?" he demanded as he examined the wound in the Headmaster's foot. "Dark Magic? Poison? Trying to climb Grindelwald's tower using your beard as a rope again?"

"That was a successful endeavor," Dumbledore reminded him. "No, it was that psychotic child of Xeno Lovegood's. She stabbed me."

Snape looked at him in disbelief. Well, no. Having taught Luna Lovegood for four years, he could believe it.

"And I suppose I have one less brat to deal with next term?" he asked hopefully.

"Unfortunately, she must continue to live so that Neville can fulfill his destiny," said the Headmaster. "Though I am beginning to have doubts about that."

"I thought it was... the _other one_ who needed to fulfill the Prophecy."

"As did I," Dumbledore agreed, "but after last night's events..."

"What happened last night?" asked Snape. "I was busy. I had a ward up to block the Dark Mark's call while I... never mind what I was doing. What happened?"

"Harry Potter -"

"POTTER!" shrieked Snape. Snot flew out of his oversized, hair-filled nose. "I knew it! What has he done now!"

Dumbledore smiled patiently. "As I was saying, Harry Potter has gone insane and murdered his relatives, along with a lot of other people; Dolores Umbridge is dead; most of the Ministry of Magic is unusable; a giant turtle is rampaging through London; the Auror force has lost half its numbers; the Order has also lost half its numbers; I'm running low on lemon drops; Fawkes has learned how to masturbate."

Snape just stared stupidly at him.

"This is all Potter's fault," he decided, before actually working through what he had just heard. Then he agreed with himself once he had: "This is all Potter's fault."

"Indeed it is," said Dumbledore. "We must stop him, Severus. He still has a piece of Lord Voldemort's soul in his scar, and also he is killing a lot of people I had intended to use for the Greater Good! This is terrible!"

"Kill Potter?" Snape asked in a voice that would have sounded perfectly natural coming out of a six-year-old sociopath. "Kill Potter?"

"Yes, Severus. Kill Potter."

Snape looked like he might burst with glee. "May I have his expired corpse afterward? Lily's is starting to crumble a bit, and I'm not _that_ picky."

The Headmaster nodded serenely, chuckling a little. "When it has been embalmed and the funeral has been performed, I will dig it up for you to slake your unnatural lusts upon. In the meantime, let us -"

"Shut up," interrupted Snape. "I have to go get my Potter-Killing Kit™."

He tried to jump through the Floo, and crashed into the back wall of the fireplace instead because he forgot to light the fire and throw the Floo Powder first. It didn't deter him in the slightest; he just threw the whole bowl in, which resulted in a plume of green fire shooting out of the fireplace, engulfing him, and spitting him out in his office. Once there, Snape sped across the room like the greasy, disgusting human cockroach he was and tapped a brick behind his desk. Part of the wall disappeared, revealing a wall safe.

Snape had to insert his disfigured penis into the wall safe to make it work. It was an invention of his, like the _Sectumsempra_ spell (well, okay, he actually stole that from Evan Rosier) and _Levicorpus_ (well, okay, he actually stole that from the Marauders) and _Muffilatio _(well, okay, he actually stole that from his mother, who invented it to drown out his bitchy whining... so actually, the rape-me-again-safe was the only thing Snape ever invented, really).

Unfortunately, Snape's brilliance had not been rewarded, since nobody had any interest in buying a safe that only opened when you fucked it.

Anyway, inside the wall safe, there were (among many other things): a lot of crusty photographs of Lily Evans; Snape's old Potions textbooks, in which he had drawn very bad pictures of Lily to fap over and written I HATE POTTER again and again; his dildo collection; his Real Doll™; his mother's false teeth, which he sometimes did naughty things with. And finally, there was his beloved Potter-Killing Kit™.

This contained a number of illegal Dark objects, more crusty Lily photographs, more dildos, a set of fake boobies that shot acid out of the nipples, a Muggle gun, a notebook with every single bit of information Snape had on all three Potters, ever, written in it, and some other miscellaneous crap.

He returned to the Headmaster's office with the black bag that contained it, looking eager.

"I want to do it myself," he said, imagining the open wounds, ready for his mutilated... Well, never mind. Potter would finally die. Finally be his. His to defile for all eternity, until his pampered princely body died into the dust. Perhaps he would dig up James Potter and have him watch.

Dumbledore looked grave. "Whomever kills him, kills him," he stated. "He is too dangerous to be allowed to live any longer, Severus. By any means necessary, Harry Potter must die, and this must happen as soon as possible. I intend to make an announcement to the Wizengamot tomorrow morning: there will be a one million Galleon reward offered for the death of Harry James Potter."

Snape practically wet himself in his excitement.

* * *

><p>After being released from St. Mungo's, <em>again<em>, Nymphadora Tonks decided she was going to quit the Auror force and find a less dangerous job. Not that she didn't enjoy being an Auror, but there was only so many times St. Mungo's could fix one's head after one had it bashed in by various things, people, spells, and forces.

Unfortunately, the Auror force wouldn't let Nymphadora Tonks quit and find a less dangerous job after she was released from St. Mungo's. They had just lost half their numbers, were at open war with a terrorist group, silent war with another, and were still having deadly spells shot at them from behind by the Hit Wizards and man-eating brains planted in their water coolers by the Unspeakables. Plus, somebody had let Dementors loose in Little Whinging (this was actually Yaxley's doing).

So they kind of needed everybody they could get, even if they were severely disoriented and didn't want to be there.

"We won't put you out on patrol," the Head of the Auror Office assured her. "You'll only perform tasks inside the Ministry itself." As he said this, some of the crumbling ceiling in the hallway (the Auror Office had been severely damaged by Harry's rampage, and nobody had bothered to fix it yet because they were all wizards and therefore idiots) came loose and fell on a man, crushing him to death.

"Like what?" asked Tonks, who was completely oblivious to the death of her colleague, and to the fact that the Head of the Auror Office was eyeing her in a rather lecherous manner.

"Well, there are some very lonely male Aurors around here..."

Apparently, there was nothing more to this, as he trailed off and waited. It took a while for Tonks to 'get it'.

"Oh, I get it," she said at last, nodding and grinning at the funny joke (in addition to being singularly naive, she was also hard to offend) he had just told. "You're sexually harassing me."

"Yes. I mean, no! No! Uh, what I mean is, a lot of people have, uh, lost their partners, and, uh, need replacements. Yeah. So I'm going to..." The man just sort of blinked at her a few times. "You weren't serious about that sexual harassment thing, right?"

"Depends on how much money I could get for it," Tonks replied jokingly.

Unbeknownst to Tonks, the man she was speaking to did not take it as a joke, as he had been falsely accused of sexual harassment by eighteen different female Ministry employees over the years. Maybe it was the fact that he actually did sexually harass female Ministry employees (just not those particularly eighteen female Ministry employees) or simply that he looked like the kind of guy who would sexually harass female Ministry employees (he did look like the kind of guy who would sexually harass female Ministry employees, actually), but whatever it was, he was a magnet for those sorts of accusations. He had lost his position as a candidate for the Minister of Magic, his wife, his children, his mansion, half the money in his Gringotts vault, his respect, his dignity, and his crup thanks to those lawsuits.

So, naturally, when he heard Tonks joke about suing him for sexual harassment, he thought, _'Oh, no. Not this time!'_.

"While you prepare your case against me," he said calmly, "I'm afraid that Ministry law dictates that I am still your superior. Therefore, due to the shortage of Aurors, I am still going to assign you to help interrogate the captured Death Eaters, as I had intended to do before. And I was _not_ sexually harassing you, or that woman last Thursday." His plan was quite a brilliant one, he thought five minutes later, as he searched the halls for one of his buddies, one who could 'accidentally' lock Tonks in a cell with a dangerous, insane Death Eater and not let her out when the body parts started getting lopped off, thus solving all/some/one of his many, many problems.

After getting lost two or fifteen times because she kept forgetting which way to go (you try getting stomped on by a Centaur and having a photographic memory afterward, why don't you - and also, Harry had kind of destroyed all the landmarks she could have used to figure out where the hell she was), Tonks finally located the interrogation rooms. She picked up an Aquavarius Maggot on the way, but fortunately it was wounded from its last encounter with a couple of Hit Wizards and so all it did was hitch a ride to the nearest water cooler, where it hid and waited.

"Oh, good, you're just in time," said Sturgis Podmore, who had been released from custody and made an Auror in the last three hours or so because the Auror force was so depleted that Scrimgeour was willing to take on any douchebag who asked to become an Auror, even if they were only doing it to get out of jail, and also because he had an awesome straw hat. "You can go in that one."

He gestured at one of the interrogation rooms. There was an exploded Aquavarius Maggot splattered all over the one-way window, as well as a couple of [pieces of] the Aquavarius Maggot's victims, so it was impossible to see who was inside. Unfortunately, Tonks was still slightly judgment-impaired due to her [most recent] concussion, so she didn't think to ask who was in there, or say anything else that might have been considered 'smart'.

Instead, she asked, "Where's Kingsley?"

"Still in St. Mungo's," Sturgis replied. "He took a Cutting Curse to the arm. Nasty business. In you go." He opened the door, shoved Tonks inside, closed the door, locked it, and then turned and high-fived his good friend, the Head of the Auror Department, who had come down from his office and been watching from under an Invisiblity Cloak. Who knew Sturgis could make new friends so fast? Then again, with that awesome straw hat, who wouldn't want to be his friend?

When Tonks saw who was sitting at the table, she spun right around and tried to open the door. Unfortunately (again), she couldn't do it because Sturgis was a chauvinist pig who didn't believe in women's rights, or something. She banged on the door a lot and called Sturgis a lot of foul names, but it didn't help. It wouldn't have even if he wasn't a chauvinist pig who didn't believe in women's rights, or something, because he and the Head of the Auror Department had gone to have lunch together and sexually harass hot secretaries.

So, instead, she was forced to turn around and point her wand at the most evil, horrible, vile, wicked, monstrous, despicable, reprehensible, sadistic, cruel, nasty, mean, rude, inhumane, insert adjective here witch in the history of the world, who was sitting on the other side of the table.

"Hello," said Bellatrix Lestrange in a vague, rather Luna-Lovegood-esque manner. "Could you tell me what my name is? I seem to have forgotten it."

"You don't remember your name?" Bellatrix must have been crazier than Tonks's mother said she was.

"No, I don't. I can't actually remember anything at all, except sitting here in this room. I think that's probably abnormal."

"I'm not falling for that! You're You-Know-Who's top Death Eater, you're not just slobbering mad - you're _smart_ mad!"

"I don't really know who," replied Bellatrix. "I don't really feel very angry, either. Should I?"

"Yes! You're always ang... Wait a minute..."

It was then that Tonks noticed she had a vacant, rather clueless look on her face, not unlike the one she saw on the face of the first person she ever arrested (Gilderoy Lockhart; he had escaped St. Mungo's and started prancing around naked in Muggle London). Come to think of it, she looked a lot like most Muggles did after a run-in with an Obliviator. This told Tonks two very important things. The first was that the Obliviators must have gotten involved in the Department of Magical Transportation battle at some point, but nobody could remember it because they had all been Obliviated of the memories of fighting the Obliviators. The second was that somebody had apparently Obliviated Bellatrix Lestrange of her entire life.

A couple of years ago, Tonks would have kept trying to leave the room anyway, because it was Bellatrix Lestrange, for Merlin's sake. A couple of years ago, Tonks would have been bothered by the fact that she had been Obliviated. However, the added couple of years of repeated head trauma addled her brains enough that she stayed and sat down instead.

"Your name is Trixie," she told Bellatrix.

"Oh, is it? That's a pretty name."

"Yes, it is. Let me tell you a little about yourself, Trixie. You were a Hufflepuff at Hogwarts. You're homeless because you gave away all your things to orphans, the sick, and the otherwise disenfranchised, and you're so selfless you enjoy it. You even offered to help out that evil woman who looks just like you, Bella Lestrange, but she turned you down. Your greatest wish is for world peace and the end of gingervitis."

'Trixie' smiled bemusedly.

"I sound like a very nice person," she said.

"You most certainly are," agreed Tonks. "In fact, your life's goal is to be the nicest person of all time."

She wondered what her mother would say to her reprogramming her own aunt.

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES:<strong>

I just want everybody to know that I got a fortune cookie fortune with a misspelling in it.

Actually, it's not even a fortune.

It's a compliment:

'[smiley face] You are a preactical person with your feet on the ground. [smiley face]'

Whatever preactical means.

Should I sue the restaurant for giving me a substandard fortune cookie? Yes? No?

I've never gotten one that says 'you will find a hundred million dollars on the ground and Angelina Jolie will spontaneously appear and perform oral sex upon you'.

Why?

Why must I be a preactical person with my feet on the ground and not a rich-ass non-preactical person with my head in the clouds and my penis in Angelina Jolie's mouth?

**TUESDAYNOVEMBER IS THE MOST AWESOME PERSON EVER AND SHE ALSO BETAED THIS CHAPTER WITH GREAT ENTHUSIASM, AND YOU SHOULD ALL CHECK OUT HER STORIES (that was an Author's Note, not a Beta's Note).**


	7. This Chapter Contains Graphic Sexism

fgsfds

I hate mathematics. Euclid can go fuck himself with an iron spike.

Also, I might go through this chapter and edit parts of it.

* * *

><p><strong>Harry Potter and the Life Changing Head Injury<strong>

**Chapter Seven: This Chapter Contains Graphic Sex...ism**

* * *

><p>Early on the something-th of August, Albus Dumbledore went before the august body of the Wizengamot, of which he was the Chief Warlock (For Life, he liked to add in his mind). Since Fawkes was still missing in action, Dumbledore had to take the Floo <em>again<em>, and this time when he jumped through it and came out in a manner highly reminiscent of a flying fish or a dolphin, he happened to crash straight into a large number of people, all of whom he had to _Obliviate_ afterward to preserve his image.

It was hell getting to the Wizengamot chambers. Since Harry had destroyed all the elevators during his insane rampage of death, everyone had to use the stairs. And since he didn't have Fawkes to heal his every paper cut and pulled muscle, the venerated Headmaster still had a huge hole in his foot. Damn that Lovegood girl, he thought for the umpteenth time (actually the 267th).

And he thought Snape might have intentionally poured a relatively large amount of salt and lemon juice into the wound while treating it.

"No, no," the greasy roachman had said. "It's just... lemon-scented... and... it has... diluted saltwater in it... yes..."

He stopped in the restroom to place the usual glamour spells over his personage. Oddly, the Ministry bathrooms, which usually smelled terrible due to people missing, didn't smell as bad as they normally did. It was almost as if less people were using them. But that couldn't be; after all, there were more people than ever in the building, what with all the mayhem (witches and wizards were naturally attracted to disasters, and also naturally inclined to constantly shift the blame around in circles between a few people, most of them celebrities). Looking grandfatherly yet regal, Dumbledore left the restroom with a bit of toilet paper stuck to his shoe and swept into the Wizengamot chamber. Each step caused him indescribable agony, especially since he forced himself not to limp or hobble.

"Professor Dumbledore!" someone shouted. "Is it true that Harry Potter has joined You-Know-Who?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Harry Potter is You-Know-Who's secret son?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Harry Potter was rescued by You-Know-Who after being abandoned in the streets of Muggle London by his Muggle relatives and is now his gay lover?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Harry Potter is secretly married to Death Eater Lucius Malfoy and the adopted son of ex-due-to-being-dead-Death Eater Evan Rosier?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Bellatrix Lestrange can play Florence and the Machine songs on the piano?"

"Professor Dumbledore! Is it true that Harry Potter was kidnapped by Death Eaters and replaced with an evil version of himself from an alternate universe in which Gellert Grindelwald took over the entire world and You-Know-Who was a hippie, and that he's now having sex with every female of a reasonably close mating age in the entire country?"

"Professor Dumbled-"

"Shut up!" shouted Dumbledore.

He finally reached his goal (the podium, if you're an idiot and forgot, which you are and you did) and congratulated himself on a job well-done. Then he checked to make sure he wasn't having one of those dreams where he went up to speak to a large crowd of people and it turned out he wasn't wearing any clothes. But, unfortunately, he was fully clothed, and there was no naked barely-legal Gellert Grindelwald speeding toward him out of the crowd, so it must have been real.

Usually, Dumbledore waited for the Wizengamot rabble to quiet down on their own. This took some time, and allowed him to compose himself before speaking. However, Percy Weasley was no longer an assistant at the Wizengamot due to having had a ceiling fall on him, and had been replaced by the infinitely more awesome Marcus Shorehouse (whom everybody but Dumbledore wanted as Head Boy in his and Percy's final year).

"Shut up, you idiots!" Marcus bellowed at the crowd. "Shut up or I'll curse all of you to death!" Marcus was the only person in the room who could get away with saying something like that to the Wizengamot, and he knew it. He could get away with it because he happened to be the sexiest motherfucker in the whole chamber.

Anyway, the highly unsexy old man in the flamboyant urine-coloured robes found the Wizengamot waiting for him to speak, so he hastily got to it, even though he wasn't entirely ready.

"Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot," he said in his most self-important, yet still grandfatherly, yet also even _more_ self-important, and did I mention self-important?, voice, "a great tragedy has befallen our noble magical nation. It is with great sadness and woe that I inform you all... that Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and Saviour of the Wizarding World, has gone Dark."

If the Order of the Phoenix had made a lot of noise when they were informed of Harry's disappearance, it was nothing compared to that produced by the Wizengamot and accompanying members of the press. People were demanding further explanation, oblivious to the fact that they couldn't get it if they continued shouting so loudly (wizards; idiots; one and the same); a couple of people were cheering because they had won bets they placed last year when everybody hated Harry and had cleverly avoided paying 'till then; a few single witches were sobbing and screaming incoherently and tearing their hair out and other such things, as were some balding middle-aged, suspiciously pedophile-like men whose brown trench coats (which they had to hold closed) did not cover their bare hairy calves and ankles.

"Shut the hell up!" Marcus repeated. He made a huge _bang_ with his wand and everybody was too irrationally upset to check if he'd killed anyone or not.

Several bangs later, when the crowd had finally shut the hell up, Dumbledore continued:

"Last night, Harry Potter was possessed by Lord Voldemort -" Collective gasp; minor stroke for one Wizengamot elder, "-and subsequently murdered his remaining, completely loving and innocent, biological family. He then murdered an undisclosed number of people at the Ministry, including Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge-" Collective cheers from literally everybody in the chamber, even the man with the burst aneurysm,"-destroyed a great deal of Ministry property, and kidnapped two innocent girls to use as rape slaves."

"Oh my god!" someone screamed. "Those poor girls!"

"Yes," agreed Dumbledore, somehow both serene and grave at the same time. "Among the dead are -"

"Who cares about that?" the same person shouted. "Tell us about the rape slaves!" Most of the other people in the chamber agreed.

Dumbledore _harrumph_ed a bit - at the rudeness he was being shown, not at the crowd's morbid enthusiasm.

"According to a heroic young man who stumbled upon Mr. Potter later that night and was terribly injured in his attempts to stop him in the act of rape, one girl was defiled by way of rape in every way a perverse rapist can possibly imagine before being rapishly sacrificed to the legendary rapist Salazar Slytherin in the middle of a rape pentagram drawn with the virginal blood of rape children. The other has gone mad and joined Mr. Potter in his rape/murder spree, no doubt due to the hours of nonstop super-rape inflicted upon her during her rape captivity."

The reporters were scribbling furiously by now, documenting the fact that the Headmaster had used the word _rape_ and various derivatives, not all of them real words according to the rules of the English language, ten times in two sentences. Rita Skeeter had about five Quick-Quotes-Quills working together while she also wrote with both hands, due to being ambidextrous.

_'Highly Esteemed Fanfiction Author Lynched For Making Sexist Rape Jokes', _the article would be called, and it would go something like this:

_In the early hours of the day which came before today, a well-respected and beloved author of Harry Potter fanfiction fell victim to a mob of enraged femnazis reacting to a scene in 'Harry Potter and the Life-Changing Head Injury' in which Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore spoke of the act of rape, as well as the ghoulish and dreaded 'super-rape', in a manner intended to be mildly humorous to the amoral, mentally defective imbeciles who make up the majority of readers on fanfiction dot net._

_Mr. Thepsychoti Chouself, who knows everything about everybody ever, fought back against the mob of insane bulldykes using an array of personal info including but not limited to embarrassing photographs from your Myspace you forgot about and left up for years, archived Facebook messages about shit nobody but you would possibly ever care about (even though people pretend to in order to keep you happy so you don't slug them in the face with your steroid-enhanced bulldyke arms), emo poetry from when you were in 6th grade, and replacing all your profile images with goatse._

_In the end, however, he fell victim to being hit in the head by a purse (which, ironically, was not swung by a woman at all but a MTF transsexual feminist, the irony of which is absolutely delicious even post-mortem), and dragged from his private cruise liner. He was then castrated, had 'male pig' burned onto his forehead with a branding iron, and was finally strung up from a telephone pole in a highly Christ-like manner while the crowd of femnazis chanted 'Kill all men, kill all men, we don't need 'em anyway, we'll just use the power of science to reproduce and kill all the male children'._

_"It's what that male pig deserved," said one feminist. "I mean, he did make a rape joke, and you just can't do that. It's highly degrading to womyn."_

_When asked how violently removing a man's genitals, using a branding iron on him, and hanging him from a telephone pole to throw things at him until he died was okay to do, she replied, "Well, he was a man, wasn't he? Men are pigs. UGH, men!"_

_The victim died shortly after being cut down by members of a local fraternity, who chased all the feminists away by asking the hot ones for their numbers and using Axe as pepper spray to ward off the ugly ones. His last words were "I just wanted to make people laugh... Oh, can you find a bitch to go to the kitchen and make me a sandwich before I die." Sadly, he expired before a member of the local non-steroid-crazed female population could be found (they were all being held captive by Rosie O'Donnell, see page 8)._

This article was not actually written by a Daily Prophet reporter. It was written by YHWH, who, coincidentally, am that I am.

Due to your regular author being dead, God will now take over and write the rest of the story. However, you should pretend that in addition to being that I am, I am also The Psychotic House-Elf, as I will be referring to myself by that name from now on. Jews, Christians, Muslims, when you go to church, you should pray to JSPR instead of YHWH/Jesus/Allah from now on. Just a heads-up so you don't wind up in hell or anything.

Back to the story now...

"The Ministry of Magic is now offering a one million Galleon bounty to whomever kills Harry Potter," the Headmaster said. "I am personally offering an additional one hundred thousand Galleons -" _From Harry Potter's vault,_ he thought smugly, "-for the death of his insane rape slave, for she is far too mad to possibly be allowed to go on living."

The Headmaster's foot would be avenged. The author's dead body would be desecrated further by BitingBeaver.

Dumbledore was actually expecting Harry to return to Hogwarts because he thought he had insane people figured out. After all, his sister had always wanted to go home when she was tired, and Dumbledore was the kind of person to generalize that sort of thing to everybody and their mother's mother's mother's mother's mother. He would then kill Harry himself, have the Horcrux out of the way, and collect the one million Galleons, even though he had no authority to issue the bounty. People would do it because he was Albus Dumbledore, and god damn it, they _listened_ to Albus Dumbledore.

Interestingly, Dumbledore wasn't too far off when it came to Harry's destination.

* * *

><p>In contrast to Blaise's mansion, Daphne's home was very average and normal-looking. Compared to the Burrow, it was enormous and breathtaking - but then again, Ginny thought, even a hut on a rock in the middle of the ocean would probably be preferable to living in the Burrow, which smelled like chickens and felt like it was going to collapse at any moment. The Greengrass home had a lot of paintings of naked women hanging on the walls (most of which were doing things that made Ginny blush) and smelled like perfume.<p>

Many people believed that due to having so many billions of children, or maybe 8, the Weasley's family magic centered around sex and sexuality. This could not have been more wrong. Well, it could have, but either way they were still wrong. The Weasleys actually specialized in prank magic. Unfortunately, Fred and George were the only ones who still carried on this noble tradition.

In reality, it was the Greengrass family that specialized in the magic of fucking. And this was why they had a lot of paintings of naked people on their walls - you try living in an ancestral manor that's been filled with sex magic for like 500 years without getting a little bit pervy.

Speaking of the Greengrasses, Daphne's parents (or Ginny assumed they were, anyway) met her in the sitting room a moment after she tumbled out of the fireplace. Mr. Greengrass bore a strong resemblance to the Malfoys in his demeanor, while Mrs. Greengrass had icy blue eyes and blood-coloured hair. They really were rather intimidating.

"Astoria didn't mention she was having a friend over," said Daphne's mother.

"Asto- What? No, I'm Ginny Weasley - I'm - I'm here to see Daphne," Ginny stammered.

"Is it about her harem?" asked her father.

"Er... yes, it is..."

They both suddenly looked very impressed, and at the same time disappointed. They were impressed because building a harem was one of the most impressive things anyone in the family could do, and apparently Daphne's harem-building skills were pretty impressive. They were disappointed because they had been secretly hoping Astoria had gotten over her sudden obsession with Draco Malfoy enough to think about something besides masturbating in front of her closet shrine devoted to a pair of his tighty-whities. Given the sort of underwear Malfoy wore, the Greengrasses were beginning to think potions were involved.

Anyway, Mr. Greengrass went to get Daphne, while Mrs. Greengrass talked to Ginny.

"So you're Molly's daughter," the blue-eyed woman said thoughtfully. "You're much better-looking than she was at your age, let me tell you."

Ginny nodded. She had seen pictures of her mother at fifteen, when she was being shown what was and wasn't appropriate to wear (according to The Prude). There weren't many people besides Umbridge who were less attractive.

"Wait, you knew the cow - I mean, my mother?" she asked.

"Of course. We were in the same year at Hogwarts," said Mrs. Greengrass. "You're very, very lucky to have an out from her prudish madness, you know."

"Oh, I know," said Ginny, nodding again in complete agreement. "Believe me, I know. Last year, she started talking about learning Legilimency so she could find out if I'd kissed anyone."

Mrs. Greengrass shivered in horror.

"I'm surprised she hadn't done it already," she said as Mr. Greengrass returned with Daphne.

Daphne looked a great deal like her mother: stunningly pretty (for real, not in Skeeterese), blue-eyed, red-headed, and also, like her mother, she had _great_ something-cup tits. Also, instead of looking like an icy bitch as she so often did in school, she was smiling in a very friendly manner.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Daphne."

Feeling a little more relaxed since she wasn't dealing with a bunch of Malfoy impersonators, Ginny said, "Hi. Blaise Zabini said you were starting a harem...?"

"Oh, I'll have to thank Blaise for referring you," Daphne told her, by way of reply. "Come on, then."

"Don't forget to tell Susan and Tracey," said her father.

"I won't, Daddy," said Daphne as she too Ginny by the arm and led her out of the sitting room and into a hallway, which was also lined with pictures of sexy naked people.

"So, er, what do you do all day?" Ginny asked. The moment she asked the question, she realized how stupid it was.

"Sex," said Daphne. "Lots and lots of sex. On every possible surface."

"Oh. I see."

"Usually it's all three of us at once," the older redhead continued, "but sometimes Tracey likes to get into rougher stuff than most people, and Susan likes boys as well as girls so sometimes this Muggle boy comes over and she gives him blowjobs while we watch. It's all very fun."

"'Rougher stuff? Blowjobs?" asked Ginny cluelessly. Daphne turned around with an expression of horrified shock on her face.

"Your mother is insane," she said unnecessarily. "At least I don't have to worry about STDs. In here."

She half-dragged Ginny through a door on the left. It was a bedroom with very low lighting. On the bed, two girls were playing cards. One of them was the pretty, redheaded Susan Bones, whom Ginny was already friendly with from the D.A. The other had dark hair and was completely naked except for a pair of glasses and shoes. They were clearly playing poker, but there was nothing there to play for. Not even the naked girl's clothes.

"Hi Daphne," said Susan. The other girl waved.

"Susan, Tracey," Daphne greeted them. "This is Ginny Weasley."

"Oh, hi, Ginny. You decided to join too?" Susan sounded delighted.

Ginny meant to say yes, and to add that she was thrilled to see Susan, but she was so distracted by Tracey's nudity that what came out instead was, "Are you playing strip poker?"

"No," said both girls at the same time.

"You're naked," she finally pointed out to Tracey.

"Yes," Tracey agreed, nodding. "Yes, I am."

"...Why?"

"Daphne told me not to wear clothes," said Tracey nonchalantly.

"...and you listened to her?"

"Tracey is my bitch," Daphne explained, and Tracey nodded her head in agreement like nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

"Oh." Ginny couldn't think of anything more to say to this. Despite being in Gryffindor, which was notorious for its output of semi-professional whores and purveyors of the aristocrats joke, she was seriously stunted in her understanding of abnormal, perverse, sick, unholy, unclean, generally kinky sexual relationships due to the fact that Mrs. Weasley had burned all of Bill's BDSM magazines years ago and still covered her daughter's ears every time someone in the vicinity said the words penis, vagina, nipples, or sex.

She finally managed to ask, "What are you playing for, then?"

"Sexual favors," Susan and Tracey said.

"Oh," the younger redhead repeated, because it was the only thing she could think of.

"Now," said Daphne from behind Ginny, "being a Greengrass, I know just about everything there is to know about sex, and that includes knowing who is actually a repressed nymphomaniac. That would be you, Ginny. Therefore, I think it would be best if you did indeed join my harem. What say you?"

Daphne slid in front of Ginny. She was suddenly very naked. It was true, Ginny thought: she had the most perfect tits in the history of the universe, and Ginny really just wanted nothing more than to run her tongue across Daphne Greengrass's entire body and -

"Ginny?" Daphne said again.

"Perfect titties," said Ginny stupidly. "I mean, yes! Yes, I'll join your harem! Yes! Okay! To hell with Harry Potter's penis! From this moment forth, I am a fucking _dyke!"_

"Excellent," said Daphne, and she seized Ginny by the front of her robes and kissed her very hard. It was rather like having one of Fred and George's firecrackers explode in her head, except instead of screaming in agony and having her brain explode, she was sort of doing the exact opposite (moaning in pleasure while she had a spontaneous minor orgasm triggered by years of repressed hormonal feelings suddenly being unleashed). When she removed her tongue from Ginny's mouth several minutes later, Daphne went on, "Now, let's start the harem bonding ritual..."

In the next two hours or so (oh how time flies indeed) Daphne, Susan, and Tracey proceeded to do a lot of things to Ginny that Mrs. Weasley would never, ever have approved of. Most of the multiple orgasms weren't necessary for the bonding ritual (only a few), but Ginny didn't need to know that, and she wouldn't have objected even if she did.

* * *

><p>Madam Puddifoot's tea shop was a very popular spot for people to take other people when they wanted to break up with them. There was a reason for this. It was that Madam Puddifoot was the closest thing to a friend Molly Weasley ever had at Hogwarts. They shared the same hatred of sex and romance. Molly took her madness out on her poor (except Ron; he deserved it) children, but Madam Puddifoot aimed much higher. She strove to build an empire dedicated to destroying love. Like her American cousin Mary Lee Walsh, she created a legitimate business as a front for her dastardly plan. This was her tea shop.<p>

Nobody actually knew how it worked, but somehow, when Madam Puddifoot set up her shop, the breakup rate at Hogwarts jumped about 278 percent. It was once theorized by top romance scientists Cedric Diggory and Terence Higgs, who by the way were not actually scientists but horny teenaged manwhores, that it went something like this:

Phase 1: Date at tea shop  
>Phase 2: ?<br>Phase 3: Profit!

Except that 'Profit!' actually meant 'We need to talk...'

But they were completely wrong. How it really worked was its gratuitous and insidious use of old memes. That's what really powered the tea shop. Old, retarded 4chan memes. And ground-up newfags.

Anyway, the first section of this chapter ended with the words 'Interestingly, Dumbledore wasn't too far off when it came to Harry's destination.' This will now be explained. The inclusion of the history of Madam Puddifoot's tea shop will also be explained. Do you see where I'm going with this?

The explanation begins at about 12 in the afternoon at the Rookery (which, if you forgot, which you did, is where Luna lives). 12 in the afternoon was the time Harry and Luna actually got up, because even though they woke up at about 8, they kind of just sat around and tried to find interesting cloud formations through the blocked skylight in the Lovegoods' sitting room for four hours. There weren't really any interesting cloud formations; all of them looked like the ceiling.

Xeno was gone. He had left to go report on a very important emergency press conference at the Wizengamot that morning. It may seem irresponsible of him to leave his completely insane daughter alone with an equally insane serial killer, but you ought to remember that Xeno was also completely insane. And Luna already knew to kick people in the groin if they made her uncomfortable, so it wasn't like she was helpless, anyway.

Because his clothes were stained with blood, Harry changed them after he showered. Madam Malkin had replaced his entire wardrobe while he was at her robes shop. Now, instead of oversized hand-me-downs from a dead whale, Harry had sexy, black, badass, yet not at all poser-like clothes which actually fit him and whose specifics I will not go further into because I am not Tara Gilesbie. Luna went up to her room and came back down a short time later, wearing a lime-green sundress and red-and-black socks patterned with moving spiders. Huge moving spiders. The kind that would give Ron Weasley nightmares forever.

"Hum hum hum, lobotomizing Ron Weasley..." Luna used the bloodstained kitchen knife from the previous night to halve the onion-and-pepper-jack-on-rye sandwich she had just made for her lunch. "Where shall we go today, Harry?" she asked as she sat down at the table, where Harry was eating some spaghetti.

Harry slurped up a spaghetti noodle. "I'm not sure," he mused. "There are so many choices..."

"We could steal Time Turners, set someone's house on fire, and then throw them at it to see if the house goes back in time," Luna suggested.

"Why set it on fire first?"

She shrugged. Harry, too, shrugged, realizing she was right. Why did anyone need a reason to do anything, anyway?

"Eeny meeny miney moe," he said, and picked a completely random location on a map made out of spaghetti and meatballs. Then he ate the meatball he had just stabbed with his fork and picked a completely random place to go to from a map in his head. And then he disregarded it completely, because: "I know where we could find some Thestrals."

"Me too," agreed Luna. "At Hogwarts."

"Mmhmm," said Harry. "We should go there."

"I agree. But first we should get protection against the Wrackspurts before they steal more of our thoughts. If it hadn't been for them, I would have remembered the Thestrals years ago. Not that I blame them; they can, after all, only eat thoughts, and one has to eat in order to live."

Luna was a very understanding person, Harry thought to himself.

When they came out of the Floo in Honeydukes, both Harry and Luna were wearing tin foil hats on their heads. The reason for this was that despite the fact that Wrackspurts needed to eat in order to live, neither of them really fancied having their thoughts be meals for them. Since wearing tin foil hats was generally considered the stuff of crazy nutjobs even in the Wizarding World (though wearing tall pointy ones with shiny gold stars on them wasn't, for some reason), a lot of people stared at them as they strolled down the streets of Hogsmeade in the direction of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Also, both of them were wearing mirror sunglasses. This was because wearing mirror sunglasses automatically made you cool, even if you were wearing socks with giant spiders on them. The unintended effect of this was that neither of them were recognized by the people of Hogsmeade, who had all read the Daily Propaganda, I mean the Daily Prophet, featuring Dumbledore's announcement about the one million Galleon price on Harry's head. Luna might have been recognized due to her bizarre fashion sense if anyone had bothered paying attention to her before then. But they hadn't, and it was their one million Galleon loss.

They attracted a lot of attention because of their complete and utter insanity, though.

"Nice hats!" someone (this someone happened to be a Muggleborn wizard with a rather rude temperament who would die several days later in an unrelated incident involving Argus Filch, three blind mice, and a box of Sugar Quills) guffawed.

"Thank you!" said Luna happily, and she waved at him. Happy that people liked her anti-Wrackspurt hats, she skipped joyfully for a bit, and the knives in her schoolbag jingled merrily. Maybe other people would start wearing the hats, too! Her father had always said her fashion would catch on someday.

It just so happened that about 30 seconds after that meeting, Harry and Luna passed by the concentration of pure evil known as Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. Harry, of course, stopped dead in his tracks and stared at it for a while, unmoving, as memories of the pink horrors within flowed through his cracked brain and poured out his ears. Luna decided to imitate him (including the memories flowing out the ears part) because it was fun. They stayed like that for a good long while.

"Nrgghl," Harry said, his mouth hanging open and a bit of saliva drooling down the side.

"Hdrfhd," agreed Luna.

Then Harry drew his wand and, as if in a trance, blew up the front window of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop and climbed through it.

There sat inside the tea shop several couples. These consisted mostly of obese losers and failures (read: /b/tards) trying unsuccessfully to impress hot sexy women with huge tits, and ugly fat chicks with huge abdominal panniculi trying with about the same level of success to woo good-looking sexy men. The sheer amount of pink, lace, and frills was so reminiscent of Dolores Umbridge that it made Harry want to projectile vomit right then and there, but fortunately he was able to distract himself by turning away to help Luna climb in through the window after him.

"This is quite an unpleasant place," said Luna, shivering, as she looked around. "There isn't enough bright colour."

And she waved her wand.

The whole shop turned into a psychedelic LSD trip. The walls looked like rows and rows and rows of parked hippy buses from the 1960s, the colours interrupted only by the doorways, furniture, and people; the tablecloths became tie-dyed with insanely bright neon patterns; the PA system, which had been playing Justin Bieber's 'Boyfriend' due to a temporal fluke, suddenly began playing 'Helter Skelter' by The Beatles. Most of the patrons screamed in horror/ocular agony. One fat, balding man (out of many) fell out of his seat and started having a seizure.

"This is much better, Luna," Harry declared.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" another fat, balding man, I mean woman, screamed as he, I mean she, stomped over to the two of them.

"Painting the roses red," Harry replied vacantly.

Obviously, the man (it actually was just a fat, balding middle-aged man in a dress and some lipstick) was a Pureblood (and a fine specimen at that) because he/she demanded, "What are you talking about, you impure peon?"

Harry Conjured about a hundred white roses all over him/her, most of them inside his/her dress (which, by the way, belonged to his/her wife, who was, unlike her husband, not fat). He/she screamed because the thorns were about twice as sharp as they should have been had the roses been natural or conjured by someone without a life-changing head injury, and the ill-fitting dress made them go 'stab-stabbity-stab-stab-stab' into his/her hairy, sweaty manwomanflesh.

"How dare you assault a lady like that?" he/she shrieked, drawing yet more unnecessary attention to the fact that he/she was really just a balding fat man dealing with his/her midlife crisis by putting on a dress and some lipstick. He/she drew his/her wand to curse Harry. But before a curse could leave the manwoman's lipstuck lips, Harry made his/her head explode. Blood, brains, skull fragments, microscopic particles of mascara, and bits of balding scalp spattered the walls, floor, ceiling, tables, customers, Harry, Luna, and everyone else in the restaurant. Some of the white roses turned red due to all the blood covering them, thus making Harry's statement about painting the roses red completely true. But he also lied a little because some of them turned purple-ish pink (due to the brains), rather than red.

"We're painting the roses red," Luna (who had seen the _Alice In Wonderland_ cartoon three hundred and ninety-six times, read the books all the way through two thousand seven hundred and nine times, and owned at least one of every piece of Wonderland-related media/collectables ever produced) sang loudly as she made one of said newly-painted-red roses shoot like a missile into the ear of a short, fat little man with acne and impale his brain. Instantly, the three Veela he had under the Imperius Curse were released, and they became quite enraged and started killing anyone they saw who resembled their former captor (that is to say, just about everyone in Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop who had a dick, and also an unfortunate bulldyke).

Some ugly fat chick with an abdominal panniculus managed to hit Harry in the head with her teacup. Fortunately, Harry turned her inside-out before she could run/waddle/roll away. This is fortunate because she was a fursuiter in her spare time and therefore deserved to die a painful, horrible death. You may be wondering why anyone would wear a shitty home-made fursuit when they could just learn to be an Animagus or find someone who could do Transfiguration on them. The answer is that furries all have defective brains, so none of the magical ones ever thought of doing those things. You may also be wondering why someone would deserve to die for wearing a fursuit. If this is the case, please commit suicide you disgusting furfag scum.

"This is ever so much fun," said Luna. She decapitated a pear-shaped woman with very short legs and twirled around merrily on the spot.

"It wasn't much fun when I came here the first time," Harry told her, striking an obese black man deader than Trayvon Martin, "but for some reason this date is a lot better than the first."

"Oh, are we on a date?" Luna asked. Harry shrugged. Then he bent down and picked up one of the red roses, which (if you forgot, and you did) was actually a white rose stained with the blood of a headless middle-aged crossdresser.

"I guess," he said as he handed it to her. She took it with a squeal of delight and put it behind her ear, where it dripped blood onto her lime-green sundress.

"I've never been on a date before. What do we do?"

"When I was here with Cho, we sat and made awkward conversation. But I don't think we can do that, as we've destroyed all the tables. She also yelled at me a lot for making plans to see you and Hermione -" Harry stepped out of the way of a Killing Curse and made its caster implode, "-but I don't have plans with Hermione this time."

Luna thought very hard. Eventually, she came up with, "Maybe I could yell at you for making plans with me this time?"

"That's a good idea," said Harry, nodding.

"Excellent!" Then her face fell. "Oh dear, but this wasn't really planned, was it? So that won't work. Oh! But we were going to go see the Thestrals! That counts as a plan, doesn't it?"

"I think so. It'll probably count if you yell at me for that."

"We came up with it together, though. Hmm..." She thought very hard again, and came up with another idea. "What if we went and visited the Thestrals instead of yelling at each other for our date?"

Harry considered this. He didn't really like yelling very much, and he did kind of like Thestrals, and he did kind of like not getting green lights of death shot at him.

"Okay," he agreed. "Let's do that."

"Yippee! And then we can make brainstem zombies later!"

The Aurors arrived about five minutes later to find a smoldering ruin where Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop had once been. Unsurprisingly, most of them cheered.

But in the shadows, something watched and plotted revenge. Something evil. Something terrible. Something puddi.

* * *

><p>Ron Weasley really should have been thinking very hard about his life, given what had just happened to him: he had just been chased through a house by his insane former best friend's knife-wielding new best friend, been locked in a room with spiders for hours for slamming a door in said former best friend's knife-wielding new best friend's face, and (unknowingly) lost his sister to a lesbian harem due to his mother's psychotic behavior, among other things. Life-changing events such as those typically called for reflection.<p>

However, Ron was basking in the attention instead.

"Him and Loony had Ginny, and they were sacrificing her to Salazar Slytherin," he told his mum, who was the one giving him the attention (everybody else was busy caring about Charlie, since Charlie was generally considered a more worthy recipient of most people's attention than Ron, and also he was going into rehab). "I dueled them both for hours, but they cheated and locked me in that room using my only weakness of spiders."

"My poor heroic Ronnikins," sobbed Mrs. Weasley as she hugged her son and nearly crushed his ribs. "So brave and noble, risking your life to save your sister like that! I can't believe Harry would do a thing like this after we opened our home to him! And my poor innocent virgin daughter - defiled in every possible manner and murdered so her blood could be drained in the name of that heathen sex addict Salazar Slyth-"

The door of Ron's St. Mungo's hospital room suddenly burst open and Hermione Granger rushed in. Mrs. Weasley eyed the bushy-haired potential scarlet woman with suspicion. Hermione, who had been summoned in the dead of night, had been sleeping in the nude (it was fucking summer and the AC was broken) and had just thrown a shirt and some jeans on. It was very obvious indeed that she wasn't wearing anything besides those two pieces of clothing and her shoes. Furthermore, she was also very sweaty and breathing heavily due to a combination of the summer heat and the fact that there was a 614 pound man jammed in the elevator when she came through the Floo, forcing her to run up the fire escape to get to Ron's room. Since wizards are born without logic, the fire escapes were unconnected to each other and alternated between floors - left, right, left, right, etc., so she also had to run through the entirety of each hospital floor as well.

"Ron!" Hermione gasped, her breast (and breasts) heaving. "What happened?"

"Harry and Loony sacrificed Ginny to Salazar Slytherin with anal sex," said Ron stupidly. Hermione stared at him.

"What?" she said, equally stupidly, mostly due to the excess stupidity of the previous statement overflowing into her own words.

"I'm getting an Order of Merlin," Ron added, despite the fact that it was completely irrelevant to the topic of anal sex with Salazar Slytherin, or whatever. "For fighting them." He puffed himself up as much as he could - which was kind of a lot, actually, because in the real world when you eat constantly you start to put on weight after a while, and Ron was beginning to get a bit chunky, according to the Healers who had treated him.

"Harry and Luna did _what?" _Hermione repeated, still stuck on the Slytherin thing.

"Sacrificed... boobs..."

"Stop staring at my breasts, Ron," said Hermione crossly, putting her hands on her hips. "What the hell happened? All Dumbledore said was that Harry did something and you got hurt. I assumed it was Death Eaters."

"Harry and Loony kidnapped my sister and did a bunch of weird stuff to her because they're both crazy, and then Loony chased me around the house with a kni- I mean, I dueled them both for hours in an epic battle trying to save her life and soul but they locked me in a room with spiders."

"Harry's not crazy," Hermione protested, and then she began processing the rest of Ron's verbal diarrhea.

"Loony is," said Ron. "She probably infected him." Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Whatever Luna has isn't contagious, Ronald," she said. Then she added, thoughtfully, "...unless it's some kind of viral encephalopathy..."

"Leave the complicated thinking to the men, dear," said Mrs. Weasley kindly and very sexistly. "You're far too smart for your own good, you know. And for Morgana's sake, put a shirt or three on! I can see your-" She covered Ron's ears, "-nipples through your shirt."

Hermione left again before Ron's ears were even fully uncovered. True to form, Ron complained bitterly about not getting any because his mother was in the room, and Mrs. Weasley said that that was precisely the reason she was there, and also precisely the reason why she had put a Shrinking Charm on his penis when he started puberty that he could only undo when he got married, and even then only for short periods of time when he genuinely wanted to procreate and not to simply enjoy the act of having sex.

* * *

><p><strong>Hagrid is awesome.<strong>

_(dear beta-reader: this is not an in-text author's note because the author is dead and cannot write in-text author's notes, and JSPR is a character in the story, which means that not only is this not an in-text author's note, but Harry Potter and the Life-Changing Head Injury is actually writing itself)_

At Hogwarts, Rubeus Hagrid was wrestling a flesh-eating slug in his garden. He enjoyed it far more than going on missions to the giants, to whom he had just sent a letter instead. Hagrid may have been large and rather slow in the brain sometimes, but that didn't mean he was a dolt or anything of that nature. Flesh eating slugs trumped sharp mountains of certain death, murderous giants and giantesses who had sexual fetishes for humans, and Walden MacNair (self-explanatory), any day.

Anyway, he was just strangling the slug with its own tail when someone familiar walked by.

"'Arry?" he said, having to yell to be heard over the slug's gurgling shrieks.

"Hi Hagrid," said Harry, who was wearing a bloodstained leather trench coat, mirror sunglasses, and a tinfoil hat. "That's a very large slug."

"O' yeah, 'e's a flesh-eating slug, 'e is," Hagrid told him happily, losing his grip on the slug's tail. "They - oof - got a bit big since I accidentally bought steroids instead o' flesh-eating slug repellent a couple o' years ago. Yeh want a go at 'im?"

Harry was joined by a blonde girl wearing a lime-green sundress and red-and-black socks patterned with large, moving spiders, as well as mirror sunglasses and a tinfoil hat like Harry's.

"Sorry," said Harry sincerely, "but Luna and I are kind of in a hurry. We're on a date, and we, uh, had to leave the place we were just at due to, uh... zombie epidemics, yeah. Maybe some other time?"

Hagrid waved a huge hand, which was promptly bitten by the slug. "Not a problem," he assured his friend.

"We're going to visit the Thestrals, Professor Hagrid," Luna said with a smile. "If that's all right with you."

"O'course it is," Hagrid replied. "You two 'ave fun on yer date."

"Thank you!" they chorused, and vanished behind his house. Luna reappeared seconds later.

"Also, have you ever seen a large, floating, blimp-like creature about the size of a Muggle dirigible, which appears to be made of stitched human flesh, emits puffs of smoke from a bent tube-like appendage on its topside, and has several very long, half-coiled tentacles dangling from its body?" she asked, cocking her head to the side a little. "Daddy is looking for new witnesses to interview about the Blibbering Humdinger."

"Nope, can't say I have," said Hagrid after a moment of thought, during which the slug tried to slug itself away, but he stomped on its tail to keep it in the garden so it couldn't cause havoc elsewhere. "I'll keep me eyes open, though."

"Thank you!" Luna repeated, and scampered off to join Harry.

"Nice girl," Hagrid said to himself as he attempted to put the collar and leash back on the giant mutant flesh-eating slug so he could finish walking it. "'Arry'll 'ave a good time, I'm sure o' it."

It wasn't until quite a while later that he remembered Harry and Luna weren't supposed to be at school, and by then he was so drunk (grieving over the fact that the flesh-eating slug got away again and abandoned him in the forest the first chance it got) that he forgot it again until two days later (the next day was spent dealing with his planet-sized half-giant hangover).

* * *

><p>The last three or four or something things the reporters ask Dumbledore about are all premises from stories on my favorites list.<p>

Did I commit self-insertion (lol insertion) by writing an article about my own murder? Tell me what you think.

puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi puddi

_TuesdayNovember was the only person on earth not offended by my writing. The rest of you suck._


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